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THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  ILLINOIS 

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CHARLES    AUCHESTER 
Volume  I. 


THE  IIBRARY 

OF  THt 

UBireiiilTY  OF  ILLWOIS 


MENDELSSOHN 

FROM    AN    ORIGINAL    PORTRAIT — 1821. 


Charles  Auchester 


BY 


ELIZABETH  SHEPPARD 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 


By  GEORGE  P.  UPTON 

AUTHOR   OF  "the    STANDARD  OPERAS,"  "STANDARD  ORATORIOS,"   "STANDARD 
CANTATAS,"  "STANDARD   SYMPHONIES,"  "WOMAN   IN   MUSIC,"  ETC. 


Volume  I. 


CHICAGO 

A.   C.   McCLURG   AND   COMPANY 

1891 


Copyright, 
By  a.  C.  McClurg  and  Co. 

A.  D.    1891. 


§0,3 
V.1 


INTRODUCTION. 


n 

1 

-i 

d1  — ' — 

C^,  'T^HE  romance  of  "  Charles  Auchester,"  which  is  really 
-L  a  memorial  to  Mendelssohn,  the  composer,  was  first 
pubhshed  in  England  in  1853.  The  titlepage  bore  the 
name  of  "E.  Berger,"  a  French  pseudonym,  which  for 
some  time  served  to  conceal  the  identity  of  the  author. 
Its  motto  was  a  sentence  from  one  of  Disraeh's  novels  ; 
"  Were  it  not  for  Music,  we  might  in  these  days  say, 
The  Beautiful  is  dead."  The  dedication  was  also  to  the 
same  distinguished  writer,  and  ran  thus :  "  To  the  author 
of  '  Contarini  Fleming,'  whose  perfect  genius  suggested 
this  imperfect  history."  To  this  flattering  dedication,  Mr. 
Disraeli  replied  in  a  note  to  the  author :  "  No  greater 
book  will  ever  be  written  upon  music,  and  it  will  one  day 
be  recognized  as  the  imaginative  classic  of  that  divine 
art." 

Rarely  has  a  book  had  a  more  propitious  introduction  to 
the  public  ;  but  it  was  destined  to  encounter  the  proverbial 
fickleness  of  that  public.  The  author  was  not  without 
honor  save  in  her  own  country.  It  was  reserved  for 
America  first  to  recognize  her  genius.  Thence  her  fame 
travelled  back  to  her  own  home ;  but  an  early  death  pre- 
vented her  from  enjoying  the  fruits  of  her  enthusiastic 
toil.  Other  works  followed  from  her  busy  pen,  among 
them  "  Counterparts,"  —  a  musico-philosophical  romance, 
dedicated  to  Mrs.  Disraeli,  which  had  a  certain  success  ; 
"  Rumor,"  of  which  Beethoven,  under  the  name  of  Rodo- 

565910 


6  INTR  on  UC  TION. 

mant,  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  hero ;  "  Beatrice  Rey- 
nolds," "  The  Double  Coronet,"  and  "  Almost  a  Heroine  :  " 
but  none  of  them  achieved  the  popularity  which  "  Charles 
Auchester"  enjoyed.  They  shone  only  by  the  reflected 
light  of  this  wonderful  girl's  first  book.  The  republication 
of  this  romance  will  recall  to  its  readers  of  an  earlier  gener- 
ation an  old  enthusiasm  which  may  not  be  altogether  lost, 
though  they  may  smile  as  they  read  and  remember.  It 
should  arouse  a  new  enthusiasm  in  the  younger  generation 
of  music-lovers. 

Elizabeth  Sheppard,  the  author  of  "  Charles  Auchester," 
was  born  at  Blackheath,  near  London,  in  1837.  Her  father 
was  a  clergyman  of  the  Established  Church,  and  her  mother 
a  Jewess  by  descent, — which  serves  to  account  for  the 
daughter's  strong  Jewish  sympathies  in  this  remarkable 
display  of  hero-worship.  Left  an  orphan  at  a  tender  age, 
she  was  thrown  upon  her  own  resources,  and  chose  school- 
teaching  for  her  profession.  She  was  evidently  a  good 
linguist  and  musician,  for  she  taught  music  and  the  lan- 
guages before  she  was  sixteen.  She  had  decided  literary 
ambition  also,  and  wrote  plays,  poems,  and  short  stories  at 
an  age  when  other  children  are  usually  engaged  in  pas- 
times. Notwithstanding  the  arduous  nature  of  her  work 
and  her  exceedingly  delicate  health,  she  devoted  her  leisure 
hours  to  literary  composition.  How  this  frail  girl  must 
have  toiled  is  evidenced  by  the  completion  of  "Charles 
Auchester  "  in  her  sixteenth  year.  In  her  seventeenth 
she  had  finished  "  Counterparts,"—  a  work  based  upon  a 
scheme  even  more  ambitious  than  that  of  her  first  story. 
When  it  is  considered  that  these  two  romances  were  written 
at  odd  moments  of  leisure  intervening  between  hours  of 
wearing  toil  in  the  school-room,  and  that  she  was  a  mere 
child  and  very  frail,  it  will  be  admitted  that  the  history  of 
literary  effort  hardly  records  a  parallel  case.  Nature  how- 
ever always  exacts  the  penalty  for  such  mental  excesses. 
This  little  creature  of  "  spirit,  fire,  and  dew "  died  on 
March  13,  1862,  at  the  early  age  of  twentj^-five. 


INTRODUCTION-.  J 

Apart  from  its  intrinsic  merits  as  a  musical  romance, 
there  are  some  features  of  "  Charles  Auchester  "  of  more 
than  ordinary  interest.  It  is  well  known  that  Seraphael, 
its  leading  character,  is  the  author's  ideal  of  Mendelssohn, 
and  that  the  romance  was  intended  to  be  a  memorial 
of  him.  More  thoroughly  to  appreciate  the  work,  and 
not  set  it  down  as  mere  rhapsody,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  Miss  Sheppard  wrote  it  in  a  period  of  Men- 
delssohn worship  in  England  as  ardent  and  wellnigh 
as  universal  as  the  Handel  worship  of  the  previous  cen- 
tury had  been.  It  was  written  in  1853.  j\Iendelssohn  had 
been  dead  but  six  years,  and  his  name  was  still  a  household 
word  in  every  English  family.  He  was  adored,  not  only 
for  his  musical  genius,  but  also  for  his  singular  purity  of 
character.  He  was  personally  as  well  known  in  England 
as  any  native  composer.  His  Scotch  Symphony  and  Heb- 
rides Overture  attested  his  love  of  Scotch  scenery.  He 
had  conducted  concerts  in  the  provinces  ;  he  appeared  at 
concerts  in  London  in  1829  and  in  subsequent  years,  and 
was  the  idol  of  the  drawing-rooms  of  that  day.  Some  of  his 
best  works  were  written  on  commissions  from  the  London 
Philharmonic  Society.  He  conducted  his  "  Lobgesang " 
at  Birmingham  in  1840,  and  he  produced  his  immortal 
"Elijah"  in  the  same  town  in  1846,  —  only  a  year  before 
his  death.  There  were  numerous  ties  of  regard,  and  even 
of  affection,  binding  him  to  the  English  people.  From  a 
passing  remark  in  the  course  of  the  romance,  we  learn  that 
it  opens  about  the  year  1833,  when  Mendelssohn  was  in 
his  prime ;  and  as  it  closes  with  his  death,  it  thus  covers 
a  period  of  fourteen  years, —  the  most  brilliant  and  produc- 
tive part  of  his  life. 

Curious  critics  of  "  Charles  Auchester"  have  found  close 
resemblances  between  its  characters  and  other  musicians. 
There  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  Starwood  Burney 
was  intended  for  Sterndale  Bennett,  not  only  from  the 
resemblance  of  the  names  in  sound  and  meaning,  but  also 
from  many  other  events  common  to   each.     It   requires, 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

however,  some  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  believe  that 
Charles  Auchester  was  intended  as  a  portrait  of  Joachim 
the  violinist ;  that  Aronach,  the  teacher  at  the  St.  Cecilia 
School,  was  meant  for  Zelter ;  Clara  Benette  for  Jenny 
Lidd ;  and  Laura  Lemark  for  Taglioni.  It  is  altogether 
likely  that  the  author  in  drawing  these  characters  had  the 
types  in  mind,  and  without  intending  to  produce  a  parallel 
or  to  preserve  anything  like  synchronism,  invested  them 
with  some  of  the  characteristics  of  the  real  persons,  all  of 
whom,  it  may  be  added,  except  Taglioni,  were  intimately 
associated  with  Mendelssohn. 

All  this  lends  the  charm  of  human  interest  to  the  book ; 
but,  after  all,  it  is  the  author's  personality  that  invests  it 
with  its  rare  fascination.  It  would  not  bear  searching 
literary  criticism ;  fortunately,  no  one  has  been  so  ungra- 
cious as  to  apply  it.  It  is  more  to  the  purpose  to  remember 
that  here  is  a  young  girl  of  exquisite  refinement,  rare  intel- 
lectuality, and  the  most  overwhelming  enthusiasm,  who  has 
written  herself  into  her  work  with  all  her  girlish  fancies, 
her  great  love  for  the  art,  her  glowing  imagination,  and  that 
rapturous  devotion  for  the  hero  of  her  exalted  world  which 
is  characteristic  of  her  sex  at  sixteen.  And  in  doing  this 
she  has  pictured  her  dreams  with  most  glowing  colors,  and 
told  them  with  delicate  naivete  2ccv^  exuberant  passion.  In 
a  word,  she  has  expressed  the  very  spirit  of  music  in  lan- 
guage, and  in  a  language  so  pure  and  adoring  as  to  amount 
to  worship.  In  Disraeli's  words,  it  is  "  the  imaginative 
classic  of  the  divine  art."  To  those  who  have  not  lost 
their  early  enthusiasms,  this  little  book  will  come  like  the 
perfume  of  a  flower,  or  some  tone  of  a  well-remembered 
voice,  recalling  the  old  days  and  reviving  an  old  pleasure. 
To  those  who  have  lost  such  emotions,  what  is  left  but 
Lethe  ? 

In  preparing  the  work  for  publication,  I  have  added 
some  brief  notes,  indicating  the  connection  between  the 
real  and  the  ideal,  and  making  the  meaning  of  the  text 
clearer  to  the  general  reader  of  to-day.     Anything  which 


INTRODUCTION.  g 

will  throw  light  upon  this  charming  romance  should  be 
welcome,  and  the  more  so  that  the  gifted  author  has  been 
strangely  neglected  both  in  musical  and  general  biographi- 
cal dictionaries.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  an  adequate  sketch 
of  her  hfe  may  some  day  appear. 

George  P.  Upton. 
Chicago,  1891. 


CHARLES    AUCHESTER. 


CHAPTER   I. 

I  NEVER  wrote  a  long  letter  in  my  life.  It  is  the 
manual  part  I  dislike,  —  arranging  the  paper,  holding 
the  pen  in  my  fingers,  and  finding  my  arm  exhausted 
with  carr}dng  it  to  and  from  the  inkstand.  It  does  not 
signify,  though ;  for  I  have  made  arrangements  with  my 
free-will  to  wTite  more  than  a  letter,  —  a  life,  or  rather 
the  life  of  a  Hfe.  Let  none  pause  to  consider  what  this 
means,  —  neither  quite  Germanly  mysterious,  nor  quite 
Saxonly  simple,  like  my  origin. 

There  are  many  literal  presentations  of  ordinar)'  per- 
sonages in  books  which,  I  am  informed,  and  I  suppose  I 
am  to  assure  myself,  are  introduced  expressly  to  inten- 
sify and  illustrate  the  chief  and  peculiar  interest  where 
an  interest  is,  or  to  allure  the  attention  of  the  implicit, 
where  it  is  not.  But  how  does  it  happen  that  the  de- 
lineations of  the  gods  among  men,  the  heroic,  gifted 
few,  the  beings  of  imaginative  might  or  genius,  are  so 
infinitely  more  literal  ?  Who  —  worshipping,  if  not 
strong  enough  to  serve,  the  Ideal  —  can  endure  the 
graceless  ignorance  of  his  subject  betrayed  by  many  a 
biographer,  accepted  and  accomplished  in  his  style? 
Who,  so  worshipping,  can  do  an)1:hing  but  shudder  at 
the  meagre,  crude,  mistakable  portraits  of  Shakspeare, 


12  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

of  Verulam,  of  Beethoven  ?  Heaven  send  my  own  may 
not  make  me  shudder  first,  and  that  in  my  attempt  to 
recall,  through  a  kind  of  artistic  interlight,  a  few  remem- 
bered lineaments,  I  be  not  self-condemned  to  blush  for 
the  spiritual  craft  whose  first  law  only  I  had  learned. 

I  know  how  many  notions  grown  persons  entertain  of 
their  childhood  as  real,  which  are  factitious,  and  founded 
upon  elder  experience,  until  they  become  confounded 
with  it ;  but  I  also  feel  that  in  great  part  we  neglect  our 
earliest  impressions,  as  vague,  which  were  the  truest  and 
best  we  ever  had.  I  beheve  none  can  recall  their  child- 
ish estimate  or  essence  without  identifying  within  their 
present  intimate  selves.  In  my  own  case  the  analogy  is 
perfect  between  my  conceptions  then  and  my  positive 
existence  now.  So  every  one  must  feel  who  is  at  all 
acquainted  with  the  liabihties  of  those  who  follow  art. 

The  man  of  power  may  manage  to  merge  his  individ- 
uality in  his  expansive  association  with  the  individuality 
of  others ;  the  man  of  science  quenches  self-conscious- 
ness in  abstraction  ;  and  not  a  few  who  follow  with  hot 
energy  some  worldly  calling,  become,  in  its  exercise,  as 
itself,  nor  for  a  sohtary  moment  are  left  alone  with  their 
personality  to  remember  even  that  as  separate  and  dis- 
tinctly real. 

But  all  artists,  whether  acknowledged  or  amateur,  must 
have  proved  that,  for  themselves,  the  gauge  of  immor- 
tality, in  life  as  in  art,  consists  in  their  self-acquaintance, 
their  self-rehance,  their  exact  self-appreciation  with  ref- 
erence to  their  masters,  their  models,  their  one  supreme 
ideal. 

I  was  bom  in  a  city  of  England  farthest  from  the  sea, 
within  whose  liberties  my  grandfather  and  father  had 
resided,  acquiring  at  once  a  steady  profit  and  an  honor- 
able commercial  fame.     Never  mind  what  they  were,  or 


FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 


13 


in  which  street  or  square  their  stocked  warehouses  were 
planted,  alluring  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  the  pupils  of 
Adam  Smith.  I  remember  the  buildings  well ;  but  my 
elder  brother,  the  eldest  of  our  family,  was  estabhshed 
there  when  I  first  recall  them,  and  he  was  always  there, 
residing  on  the  premises.  He  was  indeed  very  many  years 
my  senior,  and  I  little  knew  him  ;  but  he  was  a  steady, 
excellent  person,  ^ith  a  tolerable  tenor  voice  and  punc- 
tilious filial  observances  towards  our  admirable  mother. 
My  father  was  born  in  England ;  but  though  his  ances- 
tors were  generally  Saxon,  an  infusion  of  Norman  blood 
had  taken  place  in  his  family  a  generation  or  two  behind 
him,  and  I  always  suspected  that  we  owed  to  the  old 
breeding  of  Claire  Renee  de  Fontenelle  some  of  our 
pecuKarities  and  refinements ;  though  my  father  always 
maintained  that  they  flowed  directly  fi-om  our  mother. 
He  was  travelling  for  the  house  upon  the  Continent 
when  he  first  found  her  out,  embedded  like  a  gem  by 
a  little  German  river ;  and  she  left  with  him,  unrepin- 
ingly,  her  still  but  romantic  home,  not  again  to  revisit  it. 
My  mother  must  have  been  in  her  girlhood,  as  she 
was  in  her  maturest  years,  a  domestic  presence  of  purity, 
kindliness,  and  home-heartedness ;  she  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  ever}^  kind  of  household  manoeu\Te,  and  her 
needlework  was  something  exquisite.  From  her  Ger- 
man mother  she  inherited  the  quietness  of  which  grace 
is  born,  the  prudence  with  which  wisdom  dwells,  and 
many  an  attribute  of  virtue ;  but  from  her  father  she 
inherited  the  right  to  name  herself  of  Hebrew  origin. 
Herein  my  chief  glor}'  lies  ;  and  whatever  enlightenment 
my  destiny  has  boasted,  streams  from  that  radiant  point. 
I  know  that  there  are  many  who  would  as  genuinely 
rejoice  in  descent  fi-om  Mahomet,  from  Attila,  or  from 
Robin  Hood,  as  firora  any  of  Israel's  children ;  but  I 


14  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

claim  the  golden  link  in  my  genealogy  as  that  which  con- 
nects it  with  eternity  and  with  all  that  in  my  faith  is 
glorious.^ 

My  mother  had  lived  in  a  certain  seclusion  for  some 
years  before  I  first  began  to  realize  ;  for  my  father  died 
before  my  first  year's  close.  We  still  resided  near  the 
house  of  business,  —  not  in  it,  for  that  was  my  brother's 
now,  and  Fred  had  lately  brought  home  a  wife.  But  we 
were  quite  settled  and  at  home  in  the  house  I  first  re- 
member, when  it  breaks,  picture-hke,  on  my  dawning 
memory.  I  had  three  sisters  :  Clotilda  was  the  oldest, 
and  only  a  year  younger  than  Fred.  She  was  an  extra- 
ordinarily clever  person,  though  totally  destitute  of  art  or 
artistic  yearnings.  She  had  been  educated  unwontedly, 
and  at  least  understood  all  that  she  had  learned.  Her 
favorite  pursuits  were  reading,  and  comparing  lexicons 
and  analyses  of  different  languages,  and  endeavoring  to 
find  common  roots  for  all ;  but  she  could  and  did  work 
perfectly,  write  a  fine,  close  hand,  and  very  vigorously 
superintend  the  household  in  my  mother's  absence  or 
indisposition.  She  had  rather  a  queer  face,  like  one  of 
the  Puritan  visages  in  antique  portraits  ;  but  a  very  cheer- 
ful smile,  and  perfect  composure  of  manner,  —  a  great 
charm  in  mine  eyes,  O  ye  nymphs  and  graces  !  Milli- 
cent,  three  years  younger,  was  a  spirit  of  gentleness,  — 
imperceptibly  instructing  me,  she  must  be  treated  with  a 
sort  of  awe.  Her  melancholy  oval  face  and  her  pale 
eyelids  showed  more  of  the  Hebrew  than  any  of  us 
excepting  myself;  only  I  was  plain,  and  she  remarkably 

1  The  character  of  Charles  Auchester  is  supposed  to  have 
been  intended  for  a  sketch  of  the  violinist  Joachim,  whose  talent 
■was  first  recognized  by  Mendelssohn,  and  who  studied  for  many 
years  at  Leipsic  under  that  composer's  influence,  though  his  own 
writings  betray  a  strong  leaning  towards  Schumann. 


HOUSEHOLD  MUSIC.  1 5 

pleasing.  Lydia,  my  youngest  sister,  was  rather  showy 
than  brilliant,  and  rather  bright  than  keen, — but  not 
much  of  either ;  and  yet  she  was  always  kind  to  me,  and 
I  should  have  grieved  to  miss  her  round  brown  eyes  at 
our  breakfast-table,  or  her  loud,  ringing  laugh  upstairs 
from  the  kitchen ;  for  she  had  the  pantry  key. 

Both  Millicent  and  Lydia  played  and  sang,  if  not  very 
powerfully,  yet  with  superior  taste.  Milhcent's  notes,  not 
many  in  number,  were  as  the  notes  of  a  cooing  dove. 
Before  I  was  five  years  old  I  used  to  sit  upon  the  old 
grand  piano  and  watch  their  faces  while  they  sang  on 
Sunday  evenings,  —  my  mother  in  a  tremulous  soprano, 
with  Fred's  tenor,  and  the  bass  of  a  friend  of  his.  This 
did  not  please  me ;  and  here  let  me  say  that  musical 
temperament  as  surely  asserts  itself  in  aversion  to  dis- 
cordant, or  not  pure,  as  in  desire  for  sweet  and  true 
sounds.  I  am  certain  this  is  true.  I  was  always  happy 
when  Millicent  sang  alone,  or  even  when  she  and  Lydia 
mixed  their  notes ;  for  both  had  an  ear  as  accurate  for 
tune  and  for  time  as  can  be  found  in  England,  or  indeed 
in  Germany.  But  oh  !  I  have  writhed  beneath  the  dron- 
ings  of  Hatchardson's  bass,  on  quartet  or  chorale  an 
audible  blemish,  and  in  a  rare  composition  now  and 
then,  the  distorting  and  distracting  point  on  which  I  was 
morbidly  obliged  to  fasten  my  attention.  We  had  no 
other  music,  except  a  little  of  the  same  kind,  not  quite 
so  good,  from  various  members  of  families  in  the  neigh- 
borhood professing  to  play  or  sing.  But  I  will  not 
dwell  on  those,  for  they  are  displaced  by  images  more 
significant. 

I  can  never  recollect  a  time  when  I  did  not  sing.  I 
believe  I  sang  before  I  spoke.  Not  that  I  possessed  a 
voice  of  miraculous  power,  but  that  everything  resolved 
itself  into  a  species  of  inward  rhythm,  not  responsive  to 


l6  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

by  words,  but  which  passed  into  sound,  tone,  and  meas- 
ure before  I  knew  it  was  formed.  Every  sight  as  well  as 
all  that  touched  my  ears  produced  this  effect.  I  could 
not  watch  the  smoke  ascending,  nor  the  motions  of  the 
clouds,  nor,  subtler  yet,  the  stars  peeping  through  the 
vaulted  twilight,  without  the  framing  and  outpouring  of 
exuberant  emotion  in  strains  so  expressive  to  my  own 
intelligence  that  it  was  entranced  by  them  completely. 
I  was  a  very  ailing  child  for  several  years,  and  only  the 
cares  I  received  preserved  me  then ;  but  now  I  feel  as  if 
all  healthfulness  had  been  engendered  by  the  mere  vocal 
abstraction  into  which  I  was  plunged  a  great  part  of 
every  day.  I  had  been  used  to  hear  music  discussed, 
slightly,  it  is  true,  but  always  reverently,  and  I  early 
learned  there  were  those  who  followed  that  —  the  su- 
preme of  art  —  in  the  very  town  we  inhabited,  —  indeed, 
my  sisters  had  taken  lessons  of  a  lady  a  pupil  of  de- 
menti ;  but  she  had  left  for  London  before  I  knew  my 
notes. 

Our  piano  had  been  a  noble  instrument,  —  one  of  the 
first  and  best  that  displaced  the  harpsichords  of  Kirk- 
man.^  Well  worn,  it  had  also  been  well  used,  and  when 
deftly  handled,  had  still  some  delights  extricable.  It 
stood  in  our  drawing-room,  a  chamber  of  the  red- 
brick house  that  held  us,  —  rather  the  envy  of  our  neigh- 
bors, for  it  had  a  beautiful  ceiling,  carved  at  the  centre 
and  in  the  corners  with  bunches  and  knots  of  lilies.  It 
was  a  high  and  rather  a  large  room.  It  was  filled  with 
old  furniture,  rather  handsome  and  exquisitely  kept,  and 

1  A  family  of  eminent  harpsichord-makers.  Jacob,  the  founder 
of  the  business,  went  to  London  from  Germany  early  in  the  last 
century,  and  died  in  1778.  The  business  has  been  continued 
through  five  generations,  and  is  now  conducted  by  Joseph  Kirk- 
man  in  the  same  city. 


MY  CHILDHOOD'S  HOME.  ly 

was  a  temple  of  awe  to  me,  because  I  was  not  allowed 
to  play  there,  and  only  sometimes  to  enter  it,  —  as,  for  ex- 
ample, on  Sundays,  or  when  we  had  tea-parties,  or  when 
morning  callers  came  and  asked  to  see  me  ;  and  when- 
ever I  did  enter,  I  was  not  suffered  to  touch  the  rug  with 
my  feet,  nor  to  approach  the  sparkling  steel  of  the  fire- 
irons  and  fender  nearer  than  its  moss-like  edge.  Our 
drawing-room  was,  in  fact,  a  curious  confusion  of  Ger- 
man stiffness  and  English  comfort ;  but  I  did  not  know 
this  then. 

We  generally  sat  in  the  parlor  looking  towards  the 
street  and  the  square  tower  of  an  ancient  church.  The 
windows  were  draped  with  dark-blue  moreen,  and  be- 
tween them  stood  my  mother's  dark-blue  velvet  chair, 
always  covered  with  dark-blue  cloth,  except  on  Sundays 
and  on  New  Year's  day  and  at  the  feast  of  Christmas. 

The  dark-blue  drugget  covered  a  polished  floor, 
whose  slippery,  uncovered  margin  beneath  the  wainscot 
has  occasioned  me  many  a  tumble,  though  it  always 
tempted  me  to  slide  when  I  found  myself  alone  in  the 
room.  There  were  plenty  of  chairs  in  the  parlor,  and  a 
few  little  tables,  besides  a  large  one  in  the  centre,  over 
which  hung  a  dark-blue  cover,  with  a  border  of  glowing 
orange.  I  was  fond  of  the  high  mantelshelf,  whose  orna- 
ments were  a  German  model  of  a  bad  Haus,  and  two 
delicate  wax  nuns,  to  say  nothing  of  the  china  candle- 
sticks, the  black  Berlin  screens,  and  the  bronze  pastille- 
box. 

Of  all  things  I  gloried  in  the  oak  closets  —  one  filled 
with  books,  the  other  with  glass  and  china  —  on  either 
side  of  the  fireplace ;  nor  did  I  despise  the  blue  cloth 
stools,  beautifully  embroidered  by  Clo,  just  after  her 
sampler  days,  in  wool  oak-wreaths  rich  with  acorns.  I 
used  to  sit  upon  these  alternately  at  my  mother's  feet. 

VOL.  I.  —  2 


1 8  CHARLES  AC/CHESTER. 

for  she  would  not  permit  one  to  be  used  more  than  the 
other ;  and  1  was  a  very  obedient  infant. 

My  greatest  trial  was  going  to  church,  because  the 
singing  was  so  wretchedly  bad  that  it  made  my  ears 
ache.  Often  I  complained  to  my  mother;  but  she 
always  said  we  could  not  help  it  if  ignorant  persons  were 
employed  to  praise  God,  that  it  ought  to  make  us  more 
ready  to  stand  up  and  sing,  and  answer  our  very  best, 
and  that  none  of  us  could  praise  him  really  as  the  angels 
do.  This  was  not  anything  of  an  answer,  but  I  per- 
sisted in  questioning  her,  that  I  might  see  whether  she 
ever  caught  a  new  idea  upon  the  subject.  But  no  ;  and 
thus  I  learned  to  lean  upon  my  own  opinion  before  I 
was  eight  years  old,  for  I  never  went  to  church  till  I 
was  seven.  Clo  thought  that  there  should  be  no  singing 
in  church,  —  she  had  a  dash  of  the  Puritan  in  her  creed  ; 
but  Lydia  horrified  my  mother  oftentimes  by  saying  she 
should  write  to  the  organist  about  revising  the  choir. 
But  here  my  childish  wisdom  crept  in,  and  w^hispered  to 
me  that  nothing  could  be  done  with  such  a  battered, 
used-up,  asthmatic  macl«ne  as  our  decrepit  organ,  and 
I  gave  up  the  subject  in  despair. 

Still,  Millicent  charmed  me  one  night  by  silencing 
Fred  and  Mr.  Hatchardson  when  they  were  prosing  of 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  and  Tate  and  Brady,^  and  sing- 
ing-galleries and  charity-children,  by  saying,  — 

"  You  all  forget  that  music  is  the  highest  gift  that 
God  bestows,  and  its  faculty  the  greatest  blessing.  It 
must  be  the  only  form  of  worship  for  those  who  are 
musically  endowed,  —  that  is,  if  they  employ  it  aright." 

Millicent  had  a  meek  manner  of  administering  a 
wholesome  truth  which  another  would  have  pelted  at 
the  hearer ;  but  then  Millicent  spoke  seldom,  and  never 
^  Compilers  of  English  psalmody  in  the  last  century. 


EARLY  EDUCATION.  1 9 

unless  it  was  necessary.  She  read,  she  practised,  she 
made  up  mantles  and  caps  a  ravir,  and  she  visited  poor 
sick  people  ;  but  still  I  knew  she  was  not  happy,  though 
I  could  not  conceive  nor  conjecture  why.  She  did  not 
teach  me  anything,  and  Lydia  would  have  dreamed  first 
of  scaling  Parnassus.  But  Clo's  honorable  ambition  had 
always  been  to  educate  me  ;  and  as  she  was  really 
competent,  my  mother  made  no  objection.  I  verily 
owe  a  great  deal  to  her.  She  taught  me  to  read 
English,  French,  and  German  between  my  eighth  and 
tenth  years ;  but  then  we  all  knew  German  in  our 
cradles,  as  my  mother  had  for  us  a  nurse  from  her  own 
land.  Clo  made  me  also  spell  by  a  clever  system  of  her 
own,  and  she  got  me  somehow  into  subtraction ;  but  I 
was  a  great  concern  to  her  in  one  respect,  —  I  never  got 
on  with  my  writing.  I  believe  she  and  my  mother  en- 
tertained some  indefinite  notion  of  my  becoming,  in  due 
time,  the  junior  partner  of  the  firm.  This  prescience  of 
theirs  appalled  me  not,  for  I  never  intended  to  fulfil  it, 
and  I  thought,  justly  enough,  that  there  was  plenty  of 
time  before  me  to  undo  their  arrangements.  I  always 
went  to  my  lessons  in  the  parlor  from  nine  till  twelve, 
and  again  in  the  afternoon  for  an  hour,  so  that  I  was 
not  overworked ;  but  even  when  I  was  sitting  by  Clo,  — 
she,  glorious  creature  !  deep  in  Leyden  or  Gesenius  — 
I  used  to  chant  my  geography  or  my  Telemachus  to  my 
secret  springs  of  song,  without  knowing  how  or  why,  but 
still  chanting  as  my  existence  glided. 

I  had  tolerable  walks  in  the  town  and  about  through 
the  dusty  lanes  with  my  sisters  or  my  nurse,  for  I  was 
curious ;  and,  to  a  child,  freshness  is  inspiration,  and  old 
sights  seen  afresh  seem  new. 

I  liked  of  all  things  to  go  to  the  chemist's  when  my 
mother  replenished  her  Uttle   medicine-chest.      There 


20  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

was  unction  in  the  smell  of  the  packeted,  ticketed  drugs, 
in  the  rosy  cinnamon,  the  golden  manna,  the  pungent 
vinegar,  and  the  aromatic  myrrh.  How  I  delighted  in 
the  copper  weights,  the  spirit-lamp,  the  ivory  scales,  the 
vast  magazines  of  lozenges,  and  the  delicate  lip-salve 
cases,  to  say  nothing  of  the  glittering  toilet  bagatelles, 
and  perfumes  and  soaps  !  I  mention  all  this  just  be- 
cause the  only  taste  that  has  ever  become  necessary  to 
me  in  its  cultivation,  besides  music,  is  chemistry,  and 
I  could  almost  say  I  know  not  which  I  adhere  to  most ; 
but  Memory  comes,  — 

"  And  with  her  flying  finger  sweeps  my  lip." 
I  forbear. 

I  loved  the  factories,  to  some  of  which  I  had  access. 
I  used  to  think  those  wheels  and  whirring  works  so 
wonderful  that  they  were  like  the  inside  of  a  man's 
brain.  My  notion  was  nothing  pathetic  of  the  pale  boys 
and  lank  girls  about,  for  they  seemed  merely  stirring  or 
moveless  parts  of  the  mechanism.  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
be  thought  very  unfeeling ;  I  am  not  aware  that  I  was, 
nevertheless. 

I  sometimes  went  out  to  tea  in  the  town ;  I  did  not 
like  it,  but  I  did  it  to  please  my  mother.  At  one  or 
two  houses  I  was  accustomed  to  a  great  impression  of 
muffins,  cake,  and  marmalade,  with  coffee  and  cream  ; 
and  the  children  I  met  there  did  nothing  adequately  but 
eat.  At  a  few  houses,  again,  I  fared  better,  for  they 
only  gave  us  little  loaves  of  bread  and  little  cups  of  tea, 
and  we  romped  the  evening  long,  and  dramatized  our 
elders  and  betters  until  the  servants  came  for  us.  But 
I,  at  least,  was  always  ready  to  go  home,  and  glad  to 
see  my  short,  wide  bed  beside  my  mother's  vast  one, 
and  my  spotless  dimity  curtains  with  the  lucid  muslin 
firills  ;  and  how  often  I  sang  the  best  tunes  in  my  head 


BYGONE  MEMORIES.  21 

to  the  nameless  effect  of  rosemary  and  lavender  that 
haunted  my  large  white  pillow  ! 

We  always  went  to  bed,  and  breakfasted,  very  early, 
and  I  usually  had  an  hour  before  nine  wherein  to  dis- 
port myself  as  I  chose.  It  was  in  these  hours  Millicent 
taught  me  to  sing  from  notes  and  to  discern  the  aspect 
of  the  key-board.  Of  the  crowding  associations,  the 
teeming  remembrances,  just  at  infancy  and  early  child- 
hood, I  reject  all,  except  such  as  it  becomes  positively 
necessary  I  should  recall ;  therefore  I  dwell  not  upon 
this  phase  of  my  life,  delightful  as  it  was,  and  stamped 
with  perfect  purity,  —  the  reflex  of  an  unperverted  tem- 
perament and  of  kindly  tenderness. 


CHAPTER   II. 

T  T  7'E  had  a  town-hall,  —  a  very  imposing  building  of  its 
^  ^  class,  and  it  was  not  five  minutes'  walk  from  the 
square-towered  church  I  mentioned.  It  was,  I  well 
knew,  a  focus  of  some  excitement  at  election  times  and 
during  the  assizes,  also  in  the  spring,  when  religious 
meetings  were  held  there  ;  yet  I  had  never  been  in  it, 
and  seldom  near  it,  —  my  mother  preferring  us  to  keep 
as  clear  of  the  town  proper  as  possible.  Yet  I  knew 
well  where  it  stood,  and  I  had  an  inkling  now  and  then 
that  music  was  to  be  heard  there ;  furthermore,  within 
my  remembrance,  Millicent  and  Lydia  had  been  taken 
by  Fred  to  hear  Paganini  within  its  precincts.  I  was 
too  young  to  know  anything  of  the  triennial  festival  that 
distinguished  our  city  as  one  of  the  most  musical  in 
England,  at  that  time  almost  the  only  one,  indeed,  so 
honored  and  glorified.  I  said,  what  I  must  again  repeat, 
that  I  knew  nothing  of  such  a  prospective  or  past  event 
until  the  end  of  the  summer  in  which  I  entered  my 
eleventh  year. 

I  was  too  slight  for  my  health  to  be  complete,  but 
very  strong  for  one  so  slight.  Neither  was  I  tall,  but  I 
had  an  innate  love  of  grace  and  freedom,  which  gov- 
erned my  motions ;  for  I  was  extremely  active,  could 
leap,  spring,  and  run  with  the  best,  though  I  always 
hated  walking.  I  believe  I  should  have  died  under  any 
other  care  than  that  expanded  over  me,  for  my  mother 
abhorred  the  forcing  system.     Had  I  belonged  to  those 


EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS.  23 

who  advocate  excessive  early  culture,  my  brain  would,  I 
believe,  have  burst,  so  continually  was  it  teeming.  But 
from  my  lengthy  idleness  alternating  with  moderate 
action,  I  had  no  strain  upon  my  faculties. 

How  perfectly  I  recollect  the  morning,  early  in  au- 
tumn, on  which  the  festival  was  first  especially  suggested 
to  me  !  It  was  a  very  bright  day,  but  so  chilly  that  we 
had  a  fire  in  the  parlor  grate,  for  we  were  all  disposed 
to  be  very  comfortable  as  part  of  our  duty.  I  had  said 
all  my  lessons,  and  was  now  sitting  at  the  table  writing 
a  small  text  copy  in  a  ruled  book,  with  an  outside 
marbled  fantastically  brown  and  blue,  which  book  lay, 
not  upon  the  cloth,  of  course,  but  upon  an  inclined 
plane  formed  of  a  great  leather  case  containing  about  a 
quire  of  open  blotting-paper. 

My  sister  Clotilda  was  over  against  me  at  the  table, 
with  the  light  shaded  from  her  eyes  by  a  green  fan 
screen,  studying,  as  usual,  in  the  morning  hours,  a  Greek 
Testament  full  of  very  neat  httle  black  notes.  I  remem- 
ber her  lead-colored  gown,  her  rich  washing  silk,  and 
her  clear  white  apron,  her  crimson  muffetees  and  short, 
close  black  mittens,  her  glossy  hair  rolled  round  her 
handsome  tortoise-shell  comb,  and  the  bunch  of  rare 
though  quaint  ornaments  —  seals,  keys,  rings,  and  lockets, 
—  that  balanced  her  beautiful  English  watch.  What  a 
treasure  they  would  have  been  for  a  modern  chatelaine ! 
my  father  having  presented  her  with  the  newest,  and  an 
antique  aunt  having  willed  her  the  rest.  She  was  very 
much  like  an  old  picture  of  a  young  person  sitting  there. 

For  my  part,  I  was  usually  industrious  enough, 
because  I  was  never  persecuted  with  long  tasks ;  my 
attention  was  never  stretched,  as  it  were,  upon  a  last,  so 
that  it  was  no  meritorious  achievement  if  I  could  bend 
it  towards  all  that  I  undertook,  with  a  species  of  elasti- 


24  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

city  peculiar  to  the  nervous  temperament.  My  mother 
was  also  busy.  She  sat  in  her  tall  chair  at  the  window, 
her  eyes  constantly  drawn  towards  the  street,  but  she 
never  left  off  working,  being  deep  in  the  knitting  of  an 
enormous  black  silk  purse  for  Lydia  to  carry  when  she 
went  to  market.  Millicent  was  somewhere  out  of  the 
room,  and  Lydia,  having  given  orders  for  dinner,  had 
gone  out  to  walk. 

I  had  written  about  six  lines  in  great  trepidation  — 
for  writing  usually  fevered  me  a  little,  it  was  such  an 
effort  —  when  my  great  goose-quill  slipped  through  my 
fingers,  thin  as  they  were,  and  I  made  a  desperate 
plunge  into  an  O.  I  exclaimed  aloud,  ^'  Oh,  what  a 
blot !  "  and  my  lady  Mentor  arose  and  came  behind  me. 

"  Worse  than  a  blot,  Charles,"  she  said,  or  something 
to  that  effect.  "  A  blot  might  not  have  been  your  fault, 
but  the  page  is  very  badly  written ;  I  shall  cut  it  out, 
and  you  had  better  begin  another." 

"  I  shall  only  blot  that,  Clo,"  I  answered ;  and  Clo 
appealed  to  my  mother. 

"  It  is  very  strange,  is  it  not,  that  Charles,  who  is  very 
attentive  generally,  should  be  so  litde  careful  of  his 
writing?  He  will  never  suit  the  post  of  all  others  the 
most  important  he  should  suit." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  I  inquired  so  sharply  that  my  mother 
grew  dignified,  and  responded  gravely,  — 

"  My  dear  Clotilda,  it  will  displease  me  very  much  if 
Charles  does  not  take  pains  in  every  point,  as  you  are  so 
kind  as  to  instruct  him.  It  is  but  little  such  a  young 
brother  can  do  to  show  his  gratitude." 

"  Mother  ! "  I  cried,  and  sliding  out  of  my  chair,  I 
ran  to  hers.  "  I  shall  never  be  able  to  write,  —  I  mean 
neatly ;  Clo  may  look  over  me  if  she  likes,  and  she  will 
know  how  hard  I  try." 


MV  CHILDHOOD'S  DIFFICULTIES.  2$ 

" But  do  you  never  mean  to  write,  Charles?" 

"  I  shall  get  to  write  somehow,  I  suppose,  but  I  shall 
never  write  what  you  call  a  beautiful  hand." 

My  mother  took  my  fingers  and  laid  them  along  her 
own,  which  were  scarcely  larger. 

"  But  your  hands  are  very  little  less  than  mine  ;  surely 
they  can  hold  a  pen  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can  hold  anything  !  "  And  then  I  laughed 
and  said,  "  I  could  do  something  with  my  hands  too." 
I  was  going  to  finish,  "  I  could  play ;  "  but  Lydia  had 
just  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  and  my  mother's 
eyes  were  watching  her  up  to  the  door.  So  I  stood  be- 
fore her  without  finishing  my  explanation.  She  at  length 
said,  kindly,  "  Well,  now  go  and  write  one  charming 
copy,  and  then  we  will  walk." 

I  ran  back  to  my  table  and  climbed  my  chair,  Clo 
having  faithfully  fulfilled  her  word  and  cut  out  the  offend- 
ing leaf. 

But  I  had  scarcely  traced  once,  ''  Do  not  contradict 
your  elders,"  before  Lydia  came  in,  flushed  and  glow- 
ing, with  a  basket  upon  her  arm.  She  exhibited  the 
contents  to  my  mother,  —  who,  I  suppose,  approved 
thereof,  as  she  said  they  might  be  disposed  of  in  the 
kitchen,  —  and  then,  with  a  sort  of  sigh,  began,  before 
she  left  the  room,  to  remove  her  walking  dress. 

*'  Oh  !  it  is  hopeless  :  the  present  price  is  a  guinea." 

''  I  was  fearful  it  would  be  so,  my  dear  girl,"  rephed 
my  mother,  in  a  tone  of  mingled  condolence  and  autho- 
rity she  was  fond  of  assuming.  ''  It  would  be  neither 
expedient  nor  fitting  that  I  should  allow  you  to  go, 
though  I  very  much  wish  it ;  but  should  we  suffer  our- 
selves such  an  indulgence,  we  should  have  to  deprive 
ourselves  of  comforts  that  are  necessary  to  health,  and 
thus  to  weU  being.     I  should  not  like  dear  Millicent 


26  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

and  yourself,  young  as  you  are,  to  go  alone  to  the 
crowded  seats  in  the  town-hall ;  and  if  I  went  with  you, 
we  should  be  three  guineas  out  of  pocket  for  a  month." 

This  was  true ;  my  mother's  jointure  was  small,  and 
though  we  lived  in  ease,  it  was  by  the  exercise  of  an 
economy  rigidly  enforced  and  minutely  developed.  It 
was  in  my  own  place,  indeed,  I  learned  how  truly  happy 
does  comfort  render  home,  and  how  strictly  comfort 
may  be  expressed  by  love  from  prudence,  by  charity 
from  frugality,  and  by  wit  from  very  slender  competence. 

''  I  do  not  complain,  dear  mother,"  Lydia  resumed, 
in  a  livelier  vein  ;  "  I  ventured  to  ask  at  the  office  be- 
cause you  gave  me  leave,  and  Fred  thought  there  would 
be  back  seats  lowered  in  price,  or  perhaps  a  standing 
gallery,  as  there  was  at  the  last  festival.  But  it  seems 
the  people  in  the  gallery  made  so  much  uproar  last 
time  that  the  committee  have  resolved  to  give  it  up." 

This  was  getting  away  from  the  point,  so  I  put  in,  "  Is 
the  festival  to  be  soon,  then,  Lydia?" 

"  Yes,  dear ;  it  is  only  three  weeks  to-day  to  the  first 
performance." 

"  Will  it  be  very  grand  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes;  the  finest  and  most  complete  we  have 
ever  had." 

Then  Lydia,  having  quite  recovered  her  cheerfulness, 
went  to  the  door,  and  speedily  was  no  more  seen.  No 
one  spoke,  and  I  went  on  with  my  copy ;  but  it  was 
hard  work  for  me  to  do  so,  for  I  w^as  in  a  pricking  pul- 
sation from  head  to  foot.  It  must  have  been  a  physical 
prescience  of  mental  excitement,  for  I  had  scarcely  ever 
felt  so  much  before.  I  was  longing,  nay,  crazy,  to 
finish  my  page,  that  I  might  run  out  and  find  Millicent, 
who,  child  as  I  was,  I  knew  could  tell  me  what  I  wanted 
to  hear  better  than  any  one  of  them.     My  eagerness 


MY  IMPATIENCE.  2y 

impeded  me,  and  I  did  not  conclude  it  to  Clo's  genuine 
satisfaction  after  all.  She  dotted  all  my  i's  and  crossed 
my  t's,  though  with  a  condescending  confession  that  I 
had  taken  pains,  —  and  then  I  was  suffered  to  go  ;  but 
it  was  walking  time,  and  my  mother  dressed  me  herself 
in  her  room,  so  I  could  not  catch  Millicent  till  we  were 
fairly  in  the  street. 


CHAPTER   III. 

I  DO  not  pretend  to  remember  all  the  conversations 
verbatim  which  I  have  heard  during  my  life,  or  in 
which  I  have  taken  a  part ;  still,  there  are  many  which 
I  do  remember  word  by  word,  and  every  word.  My 
conversation  that  morning  with  Millicent  I  do  not  re- 
member, —  its  results  blotted  it  out  forever ;  still,  I  am 
conscious  it  was  an  exposition  of  energy  and  enthusiasm, 
for  hers  kindled  as  she  replied  to  my  ardent  inquiries, 
and,  unknowingly,  she  inflamed  my  own.  She  gave  me 
a  tale  of  the  orchestra,  its  fulness  and  its  potency ;  of 
the  five  hundred  voices,  of  the  conductor,  and  of  the 
assembly ;  she  assured  me  that  nothing  could  be  at  all 
like  it,  that  we  had  no  idea  of  its  resources  or  its 
effects. 

She  was  melancholy,  evidently,  at  first,  but  quite  lost 
in  her  picturesque  and  passionate  delineation,  I  all  the 
while  wondering  how  she  could  endure  to  exist  and  not 
be  going.  I  felt  in  myself  that  it  was  not  only  a  sorrow, 
but  a  shame,  to  live  in  the  very  place  and  not  press  into 
the  courts  of  music.  I  adored  music  even  then,  —  ay  ! 
not  less  than  now,  when  I  write  with  the  strong  heart 
and  brain  of  manhood.  I  thought  how  easily  Millicent 
might  do  without  a  new  hat,  a  new  cloak,  or  live  on 
bread  and  water  for  a  year.  But  I  was  man  enough 
even  then,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  to  recall  almost  on  the 
instant  that  Millicent  was  a  woman,  a  very  delicate  girl, 
too,  and  that  it  would  never  do  for  her  to  be  crushed 


MV  PECUNIARY  PLAN.  29 

among  hundreds  of  moving  men  and  women,  nor  for 
Fred  to  undertake  the  charge  of  more  than  one  —  he 
had  bought  a  ticket  for  his  wife.  Then  I  returned  to 
myself. 

From  the  first  instant  the  shghtest  idea  of  the  festival 
had  been  presented  to  me,  I  had  seized  upon  it  person- 
ally with  the  most  perfect  confidence.  1  had  even  de- 
termined how  to  go,  —  for  go  I  felt  I  must ;  and  I  knew  if 
1  could  manage  to  procure  a  ticket,  Fred  would  take  me 
in  his  hand,  and  my  mother  would  allow  me  to  be  dis- 
posed of  in  the  shadow  of  his  coat-tails,  he  was  always 
so  careful  of  us  all.  As  I  walked  homewards  I  fell  si- 
lent, and  with  myself  discussed  my  arrangements  •  they 
were  charming.  The  town-hall  was  not  distant  from 
our  house  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile.  I  was  often 
permitted  to  run  little  errands  for  my  sisters  :  to  match  a 
silk  or  to  post  a  letter.  My  pecuniary  plan  was  unique  : 
I  was  allowed  twopence  a  week,  to  spend  as  I  would, 
though  Clo  protested  I  should  keep  an  account-book  as 
soon  as  I  had  lived  a  dozen  years.  From  my  hatred  of 
copper  money  I  used  to  change  it  into  silver  as  fast  as 
possible,  and  at  present  I  had  five  sixpences,  and  should 
have  another  by  the  end  of  another  week.  I  was  to  take 
this  treasure  to  the  ticket  office,  and  request  whatever 
gentleman  presided  to  let  me  have  a  ticket  for  my  pres- 
ent deposit,  and  trust  —  I  felt  a  certain  assurance  that 
no  one  would  refuse  me,  I  know  not  why,  who  had  to 
do  with  the  management  of  musical  affairs.  I  was  to 
leave  my  sixpences  with  my  name  and  address,  and 
to  call  with  future  allowances  until  I  had  refunded  all. 
It  struck  me  that  not  many  months  must  pass  before  this 
desirable  end  might  accomplish  itself. 

I  have  often  marvelled  why  I  was  not  alarmed,  nerv- 
ous as  I  was,  to  venture  alone  into  such  a  place,  with 


30  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

such  a  purpose ;  but  I  imagine  I  was  just  too  ignorant, 
too  infantine  in  my  notions  of  business.  At  all  ev^ents, 
I  was  more  eager  than  anxious  for  the  morrow,  and  only 
restless  from  excited  hope.  I  never  manoeuvred  before, 
I  have  often  manoeuvred  since,  but  never  quite  so  inno- 
cently, as  I  did  to  be  sent  on  an  errand  the  next  morn- 
ing. It  was  very  difficult,  no  one  would  want  anything, 
and  at  last  in  despair  I  dexterously  carried  away  a 
skein,  or  half  a  skein,  of  brown  sewing  silk,  with  which 
Lydia  w^s  hemming  two  elegant  gauze  veils  for  herself 
and  for  Millicent.  The  veils  were  to  be  worn  that  day 
I  knew,  for  my  mother  had  set  her  heart  upon  their  ex- 
cluding a  "thought"  of  east  in  the  autumnal  wind,  and 
there  was  no  other  silk ;  I  managed  to  twist  it  into  my 
shoe,  and  Lydia  looked  everywhere  for  it,  even  into  the 
pages  of  Clo's  book,  —  greatly  to  her  discomfiture.  But 
in  vain,  and  at  last  said  Lydia,  "Here,  Charles,  you 
must  buy  me  another,"  handing  me  a  penny.  Poor 
Lydia  !  she  did  not  know  how  long  it  would  be  before  I 
brought  the  silk;  but  imagining  I  should  be  back  not 
directly,  I  had  the  decency  to  transfer  my  pilfered  skein 
to  the  under  surface  of  the  rug,  for  I  knew  that  they 
would  turn  it  up  as  usual  in  a  search.  And  then,  with- 
out having  been  observed  to  stoop,  I  fetched  my  beaver 
broad  brimmer  and  scampered  out. 

I  scampered  the  whole  way  to  the  hall.  It  was  a 
chilly  day,  but  the  sun  had  acquired  some  power,  and  it 
was  all  summer  in  my  veins.  I  beheve  I  had  never 
been  in  such  a  state  of  ecstasy.  I  was  quite  light- 
headed, and  madly  expected  to  possess  myself  of  a 
ticket  immediately,  and  dance  home  in  tiiumph.  The 
hall !  how  well  I  remember  it,  looking  very  still,  very 
cold,  very  blank ;  the  windows  all  shuttered,  the  doors 
all  closed.     But  never  mind ;  the  walls  were  glorious  ! 


MV  VISIT  TO    THE    TICKET-OFFICE.  31 

They  glittered  with  yellow  placards,  the  black  letters 
about  a  yard  long  announcing  the  day.  the  hour,  the 
force,  —  the  six-foot  long  list  of  wonders  and  worthies. 
I  was  something  disappointed  not  to  find  the  ticket- 
office  a  Spanish  castle  suddenly  sprung  from  the  stone- 
work of  the  hall  itself,  but  it  was  some  comfort  that  it 
was  in  St.  Giles'  Street,  which  was  not  far. 

I  scampered  off  again,  —  I  tumbled  down,  having  lost 
my  breath,  but  I  sprang  again  to  my  feet ;  I  saw  a 
perfect  encampment  of  placards,  and  I  rushed  towards 
it.  How  like  it  was  to  a  modern  railway  terminus,  that 
ticket-office  !  —  in  more  senses  than  one,  too.  The 
door  was  not  closed  here,  but  wide  open  to  the  street : 
within  were  green-baize  doors  besides,  but  the  outer 
entrance  was  crowded,  and  those  were  shut,  —  not  for 
a  minute  together,  though,  for  I  could  not  complain  of 
quiet  here.  Constantly  some  one  hurrying  past  nearly 
upset  me,  bustling  out  or  pushing  in.  They  were  all  men, 
it  is  true  ;  but  was  I  a  girl  ?  Besides,  I  had  seen  a  boy 
or  two  who  had  surveyed  me  impertinently,  and  whom  I 
took  leave  to  stare  down.  A  httle  while  I  stood  in  the 
entr>',  bewildered,  to  collect  my  thoughts,  —  not  my 
courage,  —  and  then,  endeavoring  to  be  all  calmness 
and  self-possession,  I  staggered  in.  I  then  saw  two  en- 
closed niches,  counter-like  :  the  one  had  a  huge  opening, 
and  was  crammed  with  people  on  this  side ;  the  other 
was  smaller,  an  air  of  eclecticism  pen-aded  it ;  and  be- 
hind each  stood  a  man.  There  was  a  staircase  in  front, 
and  painted  on  the  wall  to  its  left  I  read :  "  Com- 
mittee-room upstairs  ;  Balloted  places,"  —  but  then  I 
returned  to  my  counters,  and  discovered,  by  reading 
also,  that  I  must  present  myself  at  the  larger  for  unre- 
served central  seats.  It  was  occupied  so  densely  in 
front  just  now  that  it  was  hopeless  to  dream  of  an  ap- 


32  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

proach  or  appeal ;  1  could  never  scale  that  human  wall 
1  retreated  again  to  the  neighborhood  of  the  smaller 
compartment,  and  was  fascinated  to  watch  the  swarming 
faces.  Now  a  stream  poured  down  the  staircase,  all 
gentlemen,  and  most  of  them  passed  out,  nodding  and 
laughing  among  themselves.  Not  all  passed  out.  One 
or  two  strolled  to  the  inner  doors  and  peeped  through 
their  glass  halves,  while  others  gossiped  in  the  entry. 
But  one  man  came,  and  as  I  watched  him,  planted 
himself  against  the  counter  I  leaned  upon,  —  the  mart 
of  the  reserved  tickets.  He  did  not  buy  any  though, 
and  I  wondered  why  he  did  not,  he  looked  so  easy,  so 
at  home  there.  Not  that  I  saw  his  face,  which  was 
turned  from  me ;  it  struck  me  he  was  examining  a  clock 
there  was  up  on  the  staircase  wall.  I  only  noticed  his 
boots,  how  bright  they  were,  and  his  speckled  trousers, 
and  that  his  hand,  which  hung  down,  was  very  nicely 
covered  with  a  doeskin  glove. 

Before  he  had  made  out  the  time,  a  number  of  the 
stones  in  the  human  partition  gave  way  at  once,  —  in 
other  words,  I  saw  several  chinks  between  the  loungers 
at  the  larger  counter.  I  closer  clasped  my  sixpences, 
neatly  folded  in  paper,  and  sped  across  the  office.  Now 
was  my  hour,  I  was  not  quite  so  tall  as  to  be  able  to 
look  over  and  see  whom  I  addressed ;  nevertheless,  I 
still  spoke  up. 

I  said,  "  If  you  please,  sir,  I  wish  to  speak  to  you 
very  particularly  about  a  ticket." 

*^  Certainly,"  was  the  reply  instantly  thrown  down 
upon  me.     "  One  guinea,  if  you  please." 

"  Sir,  I  wish  to  speak  about  one,  not  to  buy  it  just 
this  minute  ;  and  if  you  allow  me  to  speak,"  —  I  could  not 
continue  with  the  chance  of  being  heard,  for  two  more 
stones  had  just  thrust  themselves  in  and  hid  my  chink ; 


MY   VISIT  TO    THE    TICKET-OFFICE.  33 

they  nearly  stifled  me  as  it  was,  but  I  managed  to  es- 
cape, and  stood  out  clear  behind.  I  stood  out  not  to 
go,  but  to  wait,  determined  to  apply  again  far  more 
vigorously. 

I  listened  to  the  rattling  sovereigns  as  they  dropped  ; 
and  dearly  I  longed  for  some  of  that  money,  though  I 
never  longed  for  money  before  or  since.  Then  suddenly 
reminded,  I  turned,  to  see  whether  that  noticeable  per- 
sonage had  left  the  smaller  counter-  He  was  there.  I 
insensibly  moved  nearer  to  him,  —  so  attractive  was  his 
presence.  And  as  I  believe  in  various  occult  agencies 
and  physical  influences,  I  hold  myself  to  have  been 
actually  drawn  towards  him.  He  had  a  face  upon 
which  it  was  life  to  look,  so  vivid  was  the  intelhgence  it 
radiated,  so  interesting  was  it  in  expression,  and  if  not 
perfect,  so  pure  in  outline.  He  was  gazing  at  me  too, 
and  this,  no  doubt,  called  out  of  me  a  glance  all  implor- 
ing, as  so  I  felt,  yea,  even  towards  him,  for  a  spark  of 
kindliest  beam  seemed  to  dart  from  under  his  strong 
dark  lashes,  and  his  eyes  woke  up,  —  he  even  smiled  just 
at  the  comers  of  his  small,  but  not  thin  lips.  It  was 
too  much  for  me.  I  ran  across,  and  again  took  my 
stand  beside  him.  I  thought,  and  I  still  think,  he  would 
have  spoken  to  me  instantly ;  but  another  man  stepped 
up  and  spoke  to  him.  He  rephed  in  a  voice  I  have 
always  especially  affected,  —  calm,  and  very  clear,  but 
below  tone  in  uttering  remarks  not  intended  for  the 
public.  I  did  not  hear  a  word.  As  soon  as  he  finished 
speaking,  he  turned  and  looked  down  upon  me ;  and 
then  he  said,  •'  Can  I  do  anything  for  you? " 

I  was  so  charmed  with  his  firank  address,  I  quite 
gasped  for  joy :  "  Sir,  I  am  waiting  to  speak  to  the  man 
inside  over  there  about  my  ticket." 

''  Shall  I  go  across  and  get  it  ?  '' 
VOL-  I.  — 3 


34  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Why,  no,  sir.  I  must  speak  to  him  —  or  if  you  would 
tell  me  about  it," 

"  I  will  tell  you  anything  ;  say  on." 

"  Sir,  I  am  very  poor,  and  have  not  a  guinea,  but  I 
shall  have  enough  in  time,  if  you  will  let  me  buy  one 
with  the  money  I  have  brought,  and  pay  the  rest  by 
degrees." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  way  he  laid  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder  and  turned  me  to  the  light,  —  to  scrutinize  my 
developments,  I  suspect ;  for  he  stayed  a  moment  or 
two  before  he  answered,  "  I  do  think  you  look  as  if  you 
really  wanted  one,  but  I  am  afraid  they  will  not  under- 
stand such  an  arrangement  here." 

"  I  ;;zz/j'/  go  to  the  festival,"  I  returned,  looking  into 
his  eyes,  ^'  I  am  so  resolved  to  go  ;  I  will  knock  the 
door  down  if  I  cannot  get  a  ticket.  Oh  !  I  will  sell  my 
clothes,  I  will  do  anything.  If  you  will  get  me  a  ticket, 
sir,  I  will  promise  to  pay  you,  and  you  can  come  and 
ask  my  mother  whether  I  ever  break  my  word." 

"  I  am  sure  you  always  keep  it,  or  you  would  not  love 
music  so  earnestly ;  for  you  are  very  young  to  be  so 
earnest,"  he  responded,  still  holding  me  by  the  arm,  that 
thrilled  beneath  his  kindly  pressure.  ''  Will  you  go  a 
Httle  walk  with  me,  and  then  I  can  better  understand 
you  or  what  you  want  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  won't  go  till  I  have  got  my  ticket." 

"  You  cannot  get  a  ticket,  my  poor  boy  ;  they  are  not 
so  easily  disposed  of.     Why  not  ask  your  mother  ?  " 

"  My  sister  as  good  as  did ;  but  my  mother  said  it 
was  too  expensive." 

*'  Did  your  mamma  know  how  very  much  you  wished 
it?" 

"  We  do  not  say  mamma,  she  does  not  like  it ;  she 
likes  '  liebe  Mutter.'  " 


AfV  NEW  FRIEND.  35 

"  Ah  !  she  is  German.  Perhaps  she  would  allow  you 
to  go,  if  you  told  her  your  great  desire," 

* '  No,  sir ;  she  told  Lydia  that  it  would  put  her  out 
of  pocket." 

My  new  friend  smiled  at  this. 

"  Now,  just  come  outside  ;  we  are  in  the  way  of  many 
people  here,  and  I  have  done  my  business  since  I  saw 
that  gentleman  I  was  talking  to  when  you  crept  so 
near  me." 

*'  Did  you  know  I  wanted  to  come  close  to  you, 
sir?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  and  that  you  wanted  to  speak.  I  know 
the  little  violin  face." 

These  words  transported  me.  "  Oh  !  do  you  think 
I  am  like  a  vioHn?  I  wish  I  were  one  going  to  the 
festival." 

"  Alas  !  in  that  sense  you  are  not  one,  I  fear." 

I  burst  into  tears  ;  but  I  was  very  angry  with  myself, 
and  noiselessly  put  my  whole  face  into  my  handkerchief 
as  we  moved  to  the  door.  Once  out  in  the  street,  the 
wind  speedily  dried  these  dews  of  my  youth,  and  I  ven- 
tured to  take  my  companion's  hand.  He  glanced  down 
at  mine  as  it  passed  itself  into  his,  and  I  could  see  that 
he  was  examining  it.  I  had  very  pretty  hands  and  nails, 
—  they  were  my  only  handsome  point ;  my  mother  was 
very  vain  of  them.  I  have  found  this  out  since  I  have 
grown  up. 

"  My  dear  little  boy,  I  am  going  to  do  a  very  daring 
thing." 

"What  is  that,  sir?" 

"  I  am  going  to  run  away  with  you ;  I  am  going  to 
take  you  to  my  little  house,  for  I  have  thought  of  some- 
thing I  can  only  say  to  you  in  a  room.     But  if  you  will 


36  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

tell  me  your  name,  I  will  carry  you  safe  home  afterwards, 
and  explain  everything  to  the  '  liebe  Mutter.' " 

"  Sir,  I  am  so  thankful  to  you  that  I  cannot  do 
enough  to  make  you  believe  it.  I  am  Charles  Auches- 
ter,  and  we  live  at  No.  14  Heme  Street,  at  a  red  house 
with  little  windows  and  a  great  many  steps  up  to  the 
door." 

"  I  know  the  house,  and  have  seen  a  beautiful  Jewess 
at  the  window." 

"  Everybody  says  Millicent  is  like  a  Jewess.  Sir,  do 
you  mind  telling  me  your  name  ?  I  don't  want  to  know 
it  unless  you  like  to  tell  it  me." 

"  My  name  is  not  a  very  pretty  one,  —  Lenhart  Davy."  ^ 

"From  David,  I  suppose?"  I  said,  quickly.  My 
friend  looked  at  me  very  keenly. 

"  You  seem  to  think  so  at  least." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  you  came  from  a  Jew,  like  us, — partly, 
I  mean.  Millicent  says  we  ought  to  be  very  proud  of 
it ;  and  I  think  so  too,  because  it  is  so  very  ancient,  and 
does  not  alter." 

I  perfectly  well  remember  making  this  speech. 
Lenhart  Davy  laughed  quietly,  but  so  heartily  it  was 
delightful  to  hear  him. 

"  You  are  quite  right  about  that.  Come  !  will  you 
trust  me?" 

*'  Oh  !  sir,  I  should  like  to  go  above  all  things,  if  it  is 
not  very  far,  —  I  mean  I  must  get  back  soon,  or  they  will 
be  frightened  about  me." 

1  Lenhart  Davy  is  supposed  by  some  to  have  been  intended 
for  Ferdinand  David,  who  was  Mendelssohn's  concert-meister 
at  the  Gewandhaus  in  Leipsic  and  the  teacher  of  Joachim  and 
Wilhelmj.  David  never  was  in  England,  however,  and  the 
resemblance  is  too  remote  to  be  entertained. 


MV  NEW  FRIEND,  37 

"You  shall  get  back  soon.  I  am  afraid  they  are 
frightened  now,  —  do  you  think  so  ?  But  my  little  house 
is  on  the  way  to  yours,  though  you  would  never  find 
it  out." 

He  paused,  and  we  walked  briskly  forwards. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

TURNING  out  of  the  market-place,  a  narrow  street 
presented  itself:  here  were  factories  and  the 
backs  of  houses.  Again  we  threaded  a  narrow  turning : 
here  was  an  outskirt  of  the  town.  It  fronted  a  vast 
green  space ;  all  building-ground  enclosed  this  quiet 
corner,  for  only  a  few  small  houses  stood  about.  Here 
were  no  shops  and  no  traffic.  We  went  on  in  all  haste, 
and  soon  my  guide  arrested  himself  at  a  little  green 
gate.  He  unlatched  it ;  we  passed  through  into  a  tiny 
garden,  trim  as  tiny,  pretty  as  trim,  and  enchantingly 
after  my  own  way  of  thinking.  Never  shall  I  forget  its 
aspect,  —  the  round  bed  in  the  centre,  edged  with  box  as 
green  as  moss ;  the  big  rose-tree  in  the  middle  of  the 
bed,  and  lesser  rose-trees  round ;  the  narrow  gravel 
walk,  quite  golden  in  the  sun ;  the  outer  edge  of  box, 
and  outer  bed  of  heaths  and  carnations  and  glowing 
purple  stocks.  But  above  all,  the  giant  hollyhocks,  one 
on  each  side  of  a  little  brown  door,  whose  httle  latticed 
porch  was  arched  with  clematis,  silvery  as  if  moonlight 
"  Minatrost "  were  ever  brooding  upon  that  threshold. 

I  must  not  loiter  here  ;  it  would  have  been  difficult  to 
loiter  in  going  about  the  garden,  it  was  so  unusually 
small,  and  the  house,  if  possible,  was  more  diminutive. 
It  had  above  the  door  two  tiny  casement  windows,  onlj" 
two ;  and  as  my  guide  opened  the  little  door  with  a  key 
he  brought  out  of  his  pocket,  there  was  nothing  to 
delay  our  entrance.     The  passage  was  very  narrow,  but 


AT  MR.   LENHAKT  DAVY'S.  39 

lightsome,  for  a  door  was  open  at  the  end,  peeping  into 
a  lawny  kind  of  yard.  No  children  were  tumbling  about, 
nor  was  there  any  kitchen  smell,  but  the  rarest  of  all 
essences,  a  just  perceptible  cleanliness,  —  not  moisture, 
but  freshness. 

We  advanced  to  a  staircase  about  three  feet  in  width, 
uncarpeted,  but  of  a  rich  brown  color,  like  chestnut 
skins  ;  so  also  were  the  balusters.  About  a  dozen  steps 
brought  us  to  a  proportionate  landing-place,  and  here  I 
beheld  two  other  little  brown  doors  at  angles  with  one 
another.  Lenhart  Davy  opened  one  of  these,  and  led 
me  into  a  tiny  room.  Oh,  what  a  tiny  room  !  It  was 
so  tiny,  so  rare,  so  curiously  perfect  that  I  could  not 
help  looking  into  it  as  I  should  have  done  into  a  cabinet 
collection.  The  casements  were  uncurtained,  but  a 
green  silk  shade,  gathered  at  the  top  and  bottom,  was 
drawn  half-way  along  each.  The  walls  were  entirely 
books,  —  in  fact,  the  first  thing  I  thought  of  was  the 
book-houses  I  used  to  build  of  all  the  odd  volumes  in 
our  parlor  closet  during  my  quite  incipient  years.  But 
such  books  as  adorned  the  sides  of  the  litde  sanctum 
were  more  suitable  for  walls  than  mine,  in  respect  of  size, 
being  as  they  were,  or  as  far  as  I  could  see,  all  music- 
books,  except  in  a  stand  between  the  casements,  where 
a  few  others  rested  one  against  another.  There  was  a 
soft  gray  drugget  upon  the  floor ;  and  though,  of  course, 
the  book-walls  took  up  as  much  as  half  the  room  (a 
complete  inner  coat  they  made  for  the  outside  shell), 
yet  it  did  not  strike  me  as  poking,  because  there  was  no 
heavy  furniture,  only  a  table,  rather  oval  than  round, 
and  four  chairs ;  both  chairs  and  table  of  the  hue  I  had 
admired  upon  the  staircase,  —  a  rich  vegetable  brown. 
On  the  table  stood  a  square  inkstand  of  the  same  wood, 


40  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

and  a  little  tray  filled  with  such  odds  as  rubber,  a  pen- 
knife, sealing-wax,  and  a  pencil.  The  wood  of  the 
mantelshelf  was  the  same  tone,  and  so  was  that  of  a 
plain  piano  that  stood  to  the  left  of  the  fireplace,  in  the 
only  nook  that  was  not  books  from  floor  to  ceiling ;  but 
the  books  began  again  over  the  piano.  All  this  wood, 
so  darkly  striking  the  eye,  had  an  indescribably  sooth- 
ing effect  (upon  me  I  mean),  and  right  glad  was  I  to  see 
Mr.  Davy  seat  himself  upon  a  little  brown  bench  before 
the  piano  and  open  it  carefully. 

"  Will  you  take  off  your  hat  for  a  minute  or  two,  my 
dear  boy?"  he  asked,  before  he  did  anything  else. 

I  laid  the  beaver  upon  the  oval  table. 

'^  Now,  tell  me,  can  you  sing  at  all?  " 

"Yes  sir." 

"  From  notes,  or  by  ear?  " 

*'■  A  great  deal  by  ear,  but  pretty  well  by  notes." 

"  From  notes,"  he  said,  correctingly,  and  I  laughed. 

He  then  handed  me  a  little  book  of  chorales,  which 
he  fetched  from  some  out-of-the-way  hole  beneath  the 
instrument.  They  were  all  German  :  I  knew  some  of 
them  well  enough. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can  sing  these,  I  think." 

"  Try  '  Ein'  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott.'  ^  Can  you  sing 
alto?" 

"  I  always  do.     Millicent  says  it  is  proper  for  boys." 

He  just  played  the  opening  chord  slenta?ido,  and  I 
began.  I  was  perfectly  comfortable,  because  I  knew 
what  I  was  about,  and  my  voice,  as  a  child's,  was  per- 
fect. I  saw  by  his  face  that  he  was  very  much  surprised, 
as  well  as  pleased.  Then  he  left  me  alone  to  sing  an- 
other, and  then  a  third ;  but  at  last  he  struck  in  with  a 

1  Martin  Luther's  chorale,  "  A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God." 


A T  MR.   LENHA RT  DAVY 'S.  4 1 

bass,  —  the  purest,  mellowest,  and  most  unshaken  I  have 
ever  heard,  though  not  strong ;  neither  did  he  derange 
me  by  a  florid  accompaniment  he  made  as  we  went 
along.  When  I  concluded  the  fourth,  he  turned,  and 
took  my  hand  in  his. 

"  I  knew  you  could  do  something  for  music,  but  I  had 
no  idea  it  would  be  so  very  sweetly.  I  believe  you  will 
go  to  the  festival,  after  all.  You  perceive  I  am  very 
poor,  or  perhaps  you  do  not  perceive  it,  for  children  see 
fairies  in  flies.  But  look  round  my  little  room.  I  have 
nothing  valuable  except  my  books  and  my  piano,  and 
those  I  bought  with  all  the  money  I  had  several  years 
ago.  I  dare  say  you  think  my  house  is  pretty.  Well,  it 
was  just  as  bare  as  a  bam  when  I  came  here  six  months 
ago.  I  made  the  shelves  (the  houses  for  my  precious 
books)  of  deal,  and  I  made  that  table,  and  the  chairs, 
and  this  bench,  of  deal,  and  stained  each  afterwards ;  I 
stained  my  shelves  too,  and  my  piano.  I  only  tell  you 
this  that  you  may  understand  hov/  poor  I  am.  I  cannot 
afford  to  give  you  one  of  these  tickets,  they  are  too 
dear,  neither  have  I  one  myself;  but  if  your  mother 
approves,  and  you  like  it,  I  believe  I  can  take  you  with 
me  to  sing  in  the  chorus." 

This  was  too  much  for  me  to  bear  without  some  strong 
expression  or  other.  I  took  my  hat,  hid  my  face  in  it, 
and  then  threw  my  arms  round  Lenhart  Davy's  neck. 
He  kissed  me  as  a  young  father  might  have  done,  with 
a  sort  of  pride,  and  I  was  able  to  perceive  he  had  taken 
an  instant  fancy  to  me.  I  did  not  ask  him  whether  he 
led  the  chorus,  nor  what  he  had  to  do  with  it,  nor  what 
I  should  have  to  do ;  but  I  begged  him  joyously  to  take 
me  home  directly.  He  tied  on  my  hat  himself,  and  I 
scampered  all  the  way  downstairs  and  round  the  garden 


42  CHARLES  A U CHESTER. 

before  he  came  out  of  his  shell.  He  soon  followed  after 
me,  smiling ;  and  though  he  asked  me  no  curious  ques- 
tion as  we  went  along,  I  could  tell  he  was  nervous 
about  something.  We  walked  very  fast,  and  in  little  less 
than  an  hour  from  the  time  I  left  home,  I  stood  again 
upon  the  threshold. 


CHAPTER  V. 

OF  all  the  events  of  that  market-day,  none  moved 
me  more  enjoyably  than  the  sight  of  the  counte- 
nances, quite  petrified  with  amazement,  of  my  friends  in 
the  parlor.  They  were  my  three  sisters.  Clo  came 
forward  in  her  bonnet,  all  but  ready  for  a  sortie ;  and 
though  she  bowed  demurely  enough,  she  began  at  me 
very  gravely,  — 

'^  Charles,  I  was  just  about  to  set  out  and  search  for 
you.  My  mother  has  already  sent  a  servant.  She  her- 
self is  quite  alarmed,  and  has  gone  upstairs." 

Before  I  could  manage  a  reply,  or  introduce  Lenhart 
Davy,  he  had  drawn  out  his  card.  He  gave  it  to  the 
"  beautiful  Jewess."  Millicent  took  it  calmly,  though 
she  blushed,  as  she  always  did  when  face  to  face  with 
strangers,  and  she  motioned  him  to  the  sofa.  At  this 
very  instant  my  mother  opened  the  door. 

It  would  not  be  possible  for  me  to  recover  that  con- 
versation, but  I  remember  how  very  refined  was  the 
manner,  and  how  amiably  deferential  the  explanation  of 
my  guide,  as  he  brought  out  everything  smooth  and  ap- 
parent even  to  my  mother's  ken.  Lydia  almost  laughed 
in  his  presence,  she  was  so  pleased  with  him,  and  Milli- 
cent examined  him  steadfastly  with  her  usually  shrinking 
gray  eyes.  My  mother,  I  knew,  was  displeased  with  me, 
but  she  even  forgave  me  before  he  had  done  speaking. 
His  voice  had  in  it  a  quality  (if  I  may  so  name  it)  of 


44  CHARLES  AC/CHESTER. 

brightness,  —  a  metallic  purity  when  raised;  and  the 
heroic  particles  in  his  blood  seemed  to  start  up  and 
animate  every  gesture  as  he  spoke.  To  be  more  ex- 
plicit as  to  my  possibilities,  he  told  us  that  he  was  in  fact 
a  musical  professor,  though  with  little  patronage  in  our 
town,  where  he  had  only  a  few  months  settled ;  that  for 
the  most  part  he  taught,  and  preferred  to  teach,  in 
classes,  though  he  had  but  just  succeeded  in  organizing 
the  first.  That  his  residence  and  connection  in  our 
town  were  authorized  by  his  desire  to  discover  the  max- 
imum moral  influence  of  music  upon  so  many  selected 
from  the  operative  ranks  as  should  enable  him  by  infer- 
ence to  judge  of  its  moral  power  over  those  same  ranks 
in  the  aggregate.  I  learned  this  afterwards,  of  course,  as 
I  could  not  apprehend  it  then  ;  but  I  well  recall  that  his 
language,  even  at  that  time,  bound  me  as  by  a  spell  of 
conviction,  and  I  even  appreciated  his  philanthropy  in 
exact  proportion  to  his  personal  gifts. 

He  said  a  great  deal  more,  and  considerably  enlarged 
upon  several  points  of  stirring  musical  interest,  before  he 
returned  to  the  article  of  the  festival.  Then  he  told  us 
that  his  class  would  not  form  any  section  of  the  chorus, 
being  a  private  affair  of  his  own,  but  that  he  himself 
should  sing  among  the  basses,  and  that  it  being  chiefly 
amateur,  any  accumulation  of  the  choral  force  was  of 
consequence.  He  glanced  expressly  at  my  mother  when 
he  said,  — 

"  I  think  your  little  boy's  voice  and  training  would 
render  him  a  very  valuable  vote  for  the  altos,  and  if  you 
will  permit  me  to  take  charge  of  him  at  the  rehearsals, 
and  to  exercise  him  once  or  twice  alone,  I  am  certain 
Mr.  St.  Michel  will  receive  him  gladly." 

"Is  Mr.  St.  Michel  the  conductor,  Mr.  Davy,  then?" 
repHed  my  mother  with  kindness.     "  I  remember  seeing 


MV  MOTHER   GIVES  CONSENT.  45 

him  in  Germany  when  a  httle  theatre  was  opened  in 
our  village.     I  was  a  girl  then,  and  he  very  young." 

"Yes,  madam.  Application  was  made  to  the  wonder- 
ful Milans-Andre,  who  has  been  delighting  Europe  \vith 
his  own  compositions  interpreted  by  himself;  but  he 
could  not  visit  England  at  present,  so  St.  Michel  will  be 
with  us,  as  on  former  occasions.  And  he  is  a  good  con- 
ductor, very  steady,  and  understands  rehearsal." 

Let  me  here  anticipate  and  obviate  a  question.  Was 
not  my  mother  afraid  to  trust  me  in  such  a  mixed  mul- 
titude, with  men  and  women  her  inferiors  in  culture 
and  position  ?  My  mother  had  never  trusted  me  before 
with  a  stranger,  but  I  am  certain,  at  this  distance  of  time, 
she  could  not  resist  the  pure  tnithfulness  and  perfect 
breeding  of  Lenhart  Davy,  and  was  forced  into  desiring 
such  an  acquaintance  for  me.  Perhaps,  too,  she  was 
a  little  foohsh  over  her  last-bom.  for  she  certainly  did 
indulge  me  in  a  quiet  way,  and  with  a  great  show  of 
strictness. 

As  Lenhart  Davy  paused,  she  first  thanked  him,  then 
rang  the  bell,  was  silent  until  she  had  ordered  refresh- 
ments, sat  still  even  then  a  few  minutes,  and  presently 
uttered  a  dehberate  consent.  I  could  not  bear  it.  I 
stood  on  one  foot  for  an  instant  behind  Clo's  chair,  and 
then  flung  myself  into  the  passage.  Once  upstairs,  I 
capered  and  danced  about  my  mother's  bed-room  until 
fairly  exhausted,  and  then  I  lay  down  on  my  own  bed, 
positively  in  my  coat  and  boots,  and  kicked  the  clothes 
into  a  heap,  until  I  cried.  This  brought  me  to,  and  I 
remembered  with  awe  the  premises  I  had  invaded.  I 
darted  to  my  feet,  and  was  occupied  in  restoring  calm 
as  far  as  possible  to  the  tumbled  coverlid,  when  I  was 
horrified  at  hearing  a  step.  It  was  only  Millicent,  with 
tears  in  her  good  eyes. 


46  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  I  am  so  glad  for  you,  Charles,"  she  said  ;  "  I  hope 
you  will  do  everything  in  your  power  to  show  how  grate- 
ful you  are." 

"I  will  be  grateful  to  everybody,"  I  answered.  ''  But 
do  tell  me,  is  he  gone  ?  " 

"  Dear  Charles,  do  not  say  *  he '  of  such  a  man  as 
Mr.  Davy." 

Now,  Millicent  was  but  seventeen  ;  still,  she  had  her 
ideas,  girlishly  chaste  and  charming,  of  what  men  ought 
to  be. 

"  I  think  he  is  lovely,"  I  replied,  dancing  round  and 
round  her,  till  she  seized  my  hands. 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Davy  is  gone  ;  but  he  is  kindly  coming  to 
fetch  you  to-morrow,  to  drink  tea  with  him,  and  mother 
has  asked  him  to  dine  here  on  Sunday.  He  showed 
her  a  letter  he  has  from  the  great  John  Andernach,  be- 
cause mother  said  she  knew  him,  and  she  says  Mr.  Dav^ 
must  be  very  good,  as  well  as  very  clever,  from  what 
Mr.  Andernach  has  written." 

"I  know  he  is  good  !  Think  of  his  noticing  me !  I 
knew  I  should  go  !  I  said  I  would  go  ! "  and  I  pulled 
my  hands  away  to  leap  again. 

The  old  windows  rattled,  the  walls  shook,  and  in 
came  Clo. 

"  Charles,  my  mother  says  if  you  do  not  keep  yourself 
still,  she  will  send  a  note  after  Mr.  Davy.  My  dear  boy, 
you  must  come  and  be  put  to  rights.  How  rough  your 
head  is  !  What  have  you  been  doing  to  make  it  so  ?  " 
and  she  marched  me  off.  I  was  quelled  directly,  and  it 
was  indeed  very  kind  of  them  to  scold  me,  or  I  should 
have  ecstasized  myself  iU. 

It  was  hard  work  to  get  through  that  day,  I  was  so 
impatient  for  the  next  ;  but  Millicent  took  me  to  sing  a 
little  in  the  evening,  and  I  beheve  it  sent  me  to  sleep.     I 


REVEL  IN  ANTICIPATION.  47 

must  mention  that  the  festival  was  to  last  three  days. 
There  were  to  be  three  grand  morning  performances 
and  three  evening  concerts  ;  but  my  mother  informed 
me  she  had  said  she  did  not  like  my  being  out  at  night, 
and  that  Lenhart  Davy  had  answered,  the  evening  con- 
certs were  not  free  of  entrance  to  him,  as  there  was  to 
be  no  chorus,  so  he  could  not  take  me.  I  did  not  care ; 
for  now  a  new  excitement,  child  of  the  first  and  very 
like  its  parent,  sprang  within  my  breast.  To  sing  myself, 
—  it  was  something  too  grand;  the  veins  glowed  in 
my  temples  as  I  thought  of  my  voice,  so  small  and  thin, 
swelling  in  the  cloud  of  song  to  heaven  \  my  side 
throbbed  and  fluttered.  To  go  was  more  than  I  dared 
to  expect ;  but  to  be  necessary  to  go  was  more  than  I 
desen-ed,  —  it  was  glory. 

I  gathered  a  few  ver}'  nice  flowers  to  give  Lenhart 
Davy,  for  we  had  a  pretty  garden  behind  the  house,  and 
also  a  bit  of  a  greenhouse,  in  which  Millicent  kept  our 
geraniums  all  the  winter.  She  was  tying  up  the  flowers 
for  me  with  green  silk  when  he  knocked  at  the  door, 
and  would  not  come  in,  but  waited  for  me  outside. 
Amiable  readers,  ever)'body  was  old-fashioned  twenty 
years  ago,^  and  many  somebodies  took  tea  at  five 
o'clock.  Admirable  economy  of  social  Hfe,  to  eat 
when  you  hunger,  and  to  drink  when  you  thirst !  But 
it  is  polite  to  invent  an  appetite  for  made-dishes,  so  we 
complain  not  that  we  dine  at  eight  nowadays ;  and  it 
is  politic  too,  for  complexions  are  not  what  they  used 
to  be,  and  maiden  heiresses,  with  all  their  thousands, 
cannot  purchase  Beauty  Sleep  !  Pardon  my  digression 
while  Davy  is  waiting  at  the  door.  I  did  not  keep  him 
so  long,  be  certain.  We  set  out.  He  was  very  much 
pleased  with  my  flowers,  and  as  it  was  rather  a  chilly 

1  This  would  make  the  romance  open  in  the  year  1833. 


48  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

afternoon,  he  challenged  me  to  a  race.  We  ran  to- 
gether, he  striding  after  me  like  a  child  himself  in  play, 
and  snapping  at  my  coat ;  I  screamed  all  the  while  with 
exquisite  sensation  of  pleasurable  fun.  Then  I  sped 
away  like  a  hound,  and  still  again  he  caught  me  and 
lifted  me  high  into  the  air.  Such  buoyancy  of  spirits  I 
never  met  with,  such  fluency  of  attitude ;  I  cannot  call 
them  or  their  effect  animal.  It  was  rather  as  if  the 
bright  wit  pervaded  the  bilious  temperament,  almost 
misleading  the  physiologist  to  name  it  nervous.  I  have 
never  described  Lenhart  Davy,  nor  can  I ;  but  to  use 
the  keener  words  of  my  friend  Dumas,  he  was  one  of 
the  men  the  most  "  significant"  I  ever  knew. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

ARRIVED  at  his  house,  —  that  house,  just  what  a 
house  should  be,  to  the  purpose  in  every  respect, 

—  I  flew  in  as  if  quite  at  home.  I  was  rather  amazed  that 
I  saw  no  woman-creature  about,  nor  any  kind  of  servant. 
The  door  at  the  end  of  the  passage  was  still  open ;  I 
still  saw  out  into  the  little  lawny  yard,  but  nobody  was 
stirring.     "The  house  was  haunted  !  " 

I  believe  it,  —  by  a  choir  of  glorious  ghosts  ! 

"  Dear  alto,  you  will  not  be  alarmed  to  be  locked  in 
with  me,  I  hope,  will  you?  " 

''Frightened,  sir?  Oh,  no,  it  is  delicious."  I  most 
truly  felt  it  delicious.     I  preceded  him  up  the  staircase, 

—  he  remaining  behind  to  lock  the  little  door.  I  most 
truly  felt  it  delicious.  Allow  me  again  to  allude  to  the 
appetite.  I  was  very  hungry,  and  when  I  entered  the 
parlor  I  beheld  such  preparation  upon  the  table  as  re- 
minded me  it  is  at  times  satisfactory  as  well  as  necessary 
to  eat  and  drink.  The  brown  inkstand  and  company 
were  removed,  and  in  their  stead  I  saw  a  little  tray,  of 
an  oval  form,  upon  which  tray  stood  the  most  exquisite 
porcelain  service  for  two  I  have  ever  seen.  The  china 
was  small  and  very  old,  —  I  knew  that,  for  we  were 
rather  curious  in  china  at  home ;  and  I  saw  how  very 
valuable  these  cups,  that  cream-jug,  those  plates  must 
be.  They  were  of  pearly  clearness,  and  the  crimson 
and  purple  butterfly  on  each  rested  over  a  sprig  of 
honeysuckle  entwined  with  violets. 

VOL.1. — 4 


50  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

''  Oh,  what  beautiful  china  !  "  I  exclaimed ;  I  could 
not  help  it,  and  Lenhart  Davy  smiled. 

"  It  was  a  present  to  me  from  my  class  in  Germany." 
"  Did  you  have  a  class,  sir,  in  Germany?" 
''  Only  little  boys,  CharHe,  like  myself." 
"  Sir,  did  you  teach  when  you  were  a  little  boy  ?  " 
"  I  began  to  teach  before  I  was  a  great  boy,  but  I 
taught  only  little  boys  then." 

He  placed  me  in  a  chair  while  he  left  the  room  for  an 
instant.  I  suppose  he  entered  the  next,  for  I  heard  him 
close  at  hand.  Coming  back  quickly,  he  placed  a  little 
spirit-lamp  upon  the  table,  and  a  little  bright  kettle  over 
it ;  it  boiled  very  soon.  He  made  such  tea  !  — I  shall 
never  forget  it ;  and  when  I  told  him  I  very  seldom  had 
tea  at  home,  he  answered,  "  I  seldom  drink  more  than 
one  cup  myself;  but  I  think  one  cannot  hurt  even  such 
a  nervous  person  as  you  are,  —  and  besides,  tea  im- 
proves the  voice,  —  did  you  know  that?" 

I  laughed,  and  drew  my  chair  close  to  his.     Nor  shall 
I  ever  forget  the  tiny  loaves,  white  and  brown,  nor  the 
tiny  pat  of  butter,  nor  the  thin,   transparent  biscuits, 
crisp  as  hoar-frost,  and  delicate  as  if  made  of  Israelitish 
manna.     Davy  ate  not  much  himself,  but  he  seemed  de- 
lighted to  see  me  eat,  nor  would  he  allow  me  to  talk. 
"One  never  should,"  said  he,  "while  eating." 
Frugal  as  he  was,  he  never   for  an  instant  lost  his 
cheery  smile  and  companionable  manner,  and  I  observed 
he  watched  me  very  closely.    As  soon  as  I  had  gathered 
up  and  put  away  my  last  crumb,  I  slipped  out  of  my 
chair,  and  pretended  to  pull  him  from  his  seat. 
"  Ah  !  you  are  right,  we  have  much  to  do." 
He  went  out  again,  and  returned  laden  with  a  wooden 
tray,  on  which  he  piled  all  the  things  and  carried  them 
downstairs.     Returning,  he  laughed  and  said,  — 


MY  FIRST  LESSON  AT  MY  NEW  FRIEND'S.    5  I 

"  I  must  be  a  little  put  out  to-night,  as  I  have  a  visitor, 
so  I  shall  not  clear  up  until  I  have  taken  you  home." 

"  My  mother  is  going  to  send  for  me,  sir ;  but  I  wish 
I  might  help  you  now." 

"  I  shall  not  need  help,  —  I  want  it  at  least  in  another 
way.     Will  you  now  come  here  ?  " 

We  removed  to  the  piano.  He  took  down  from  the 
shelves  that  overshadowed  it  three  or  four  volumes  in 
succession.  At  length,  selecting  one,  he  laid  it  upon 
the  desk  and  opened  it.  I  gazed  in  admiration.  It 
was  a  splendid  edition,  in  score,  of  Pergolesi's  "  Stabat 
Mater."  He  gathered  from  within  its  pages  a  separate 
sheet  —  the  alto  part,  beautifully  copied  —  and  handed 
it  to  me,  saying,  ''  I  know  you  will  take  care  of  it."  So 
I  did.  We  worked  very  hard,  but  I  think  I  never  en- 
joyed any  exercise  so  much.  He  premised,  with  a  cun- 
ning smile,  that  he  should  not  let  me  run  on  at  that  rate 
if  I  had  not  to  be  brushed  up  all  in  a  hurry  ;  but  then, 
though  I  was  ignorant,  I  was  apt  and  very  ardent.  I 
sang  with  an  entire  attention  to  his  hints ;  and  though  I 
felt  I  was  hurr)'ing  on  too  fast  for  my  "  understanding  " 
to  keep  pace  with  my  "  spirit,"  yet  I  did  get  on  very 
rapidly  in  the  mere  accession  to  acquaintance  with  the 
part.  We  literally  rushed  through  the  '''  Stabat  Mater," 
which  was  for  the  first  part  of  the  first  grand  morning, 
and  then,  for  the  other,  we  began  the  *^  Dettingen  Te 
Deum."  I  thought  this  very  easy  after  the  "Stabat 
Mater,"  but  Davy  silenced  me  by  suggesting,  "  You  do 
not  know  the  diflficulty  until  you  are  placed  in  the 
choir."  Our  evening's  practice  lasted  about  two  hours 
and  a  half.  He  stroked  my  hair  gently  then,  and  said 
he  feared  he  had  fatigued  me.  I  answered  by  thanking 
him  with  all  my  might,  and  begging  to  go  on.  He 
shook  his  head. 


52  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  done  too  much  now.  This 
day  week  the  '  Creation,'  —  that  is  for  the  second  morn- 
ing ;  and  then,  Charles,  then  the  '  Messiah,'  —  last  and 
best." 

"  Oh,  the  '  Messiah  '  !  I  know  some  of  the  songs,  — 
at  least,  I  have  heard  them.  And  are  we  to  hear  that  ? 
and  am  I  to  sing  in  '  Hallelujah '  ?  "  I  had  known  of  it 
from  my  cradle ;  and  loving  it  befo?-e  I  heard  it,  how  did 
I  feel  for  it  when  it  was  to  be  brought  so  near  me  ?  I 
think  that  this  oratorio  is  the  most  beloved  of  any  by 
children  and  child-like  souls.  How  strangely  in  it  all 
spirits  take  a  part ! 

Margareth,  our  ancient  nurse,  came  for  me  at  half- 
past  eight.  She  was  not  sent  away,  but  Davy  would 
accompany  us  to  our  own  door.  Before  I  left  his 
house,  and  while  she  was  waiting  in  the  parlor,  he  said 
to  me,  "Would  you  like  to  see  where  I  sleep?"  and 
called  me  into  the  most  wonderful  little  room.  A 
shower-bath  filled  one  corner ;  there  was  a  great  closet 
one  whole  side,  filled  with  every  necessary  exactly 
enough  for  one  person.  The  bed  was  perfectly  plain, 
with  no  curtains  and  but  a  head-board,  a  mattress,  look- 
ing as  hard  as  the  ground,  and  a  very  singular  portrait, 
over  the  head,  of  a  gentleman,  in  line-engraving,  which 
does  not  intellectualize  the  contour.  This  worthy  wore 
a  flowing  wig  and  a  shirt  bedecked  with  frills. 

"  That  is  John  Sebastian  Bach,"  said  Lenhart  Davy,  — 
"  at  least,  they  told  me  so  in  Dresden.  I  keep  it  be- 
cause it  means  to  be  he." 

"  Ah  !  "  I  rephed  ;  for  I  had  heard  the  jaw-breaking 
name,  which  is  dearer  to  many  (though  they,  alas  !  too 
few,  are  scattered)  than  the  sound  of  Lydian  measures. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

IF  I  permit  myself  to  pay  any  more  visits  to  the 
nameless  cottage,  I  shall  never  take  myself  to  the 
festival ;  but  I  must  just  say  that  we  entertained  Davy 
the  next  Sunday  at  dinner.  I  had  never  seen  my  mother 
enjoy  anybody's  society  so  much ;  but  I  observed  he 
talked  not  so  much  as  he  listened  to  her,  and  this  may 
have  been  the  secret.  He  went  very  early,  but  on  the 
Tuesday  he  fetched  me  again.  It  was  not  in  vain  that 
I  sang  this  time  either,  —  my  voice  seemed  to  deliver 
itself  from  something  earthly  :  it  was  joy  and  ease  to 
pour  it  forth. 

When  we  had  blended  the  bass  and  alto  of  the 
"  Creation  "  choruses,  with  a  long  spell  at  "  The 
heavens  are  telling,"  Davy  observed,  "Now  for  the 
'  Messiah,'  but  you  will  only  be  able  to  look  at  it  with 
me ;  to-morrow  night  is  rehearsal  at  the  hall,  and  your 
mother  must  let  you  go."  Rehearsal  at  the  hall !  What 
words  were  those  ?  They  rang  in  my  brain  that  night, 
and  I  began  to  grow  very  feverish.  Millicent  was  ver}^ 
kind  to  me  :  but  I  was  quite  timid  of  adverting  to  my 
auspices,  and  I  dared  not  introduce  the  subject,  as  none 
of  them  could  feel  as  I  did.  My  mother  watched  me 
somewhat  anxiously,  —  and  no  wonder ;  for  I  was  very 
much  excited.  But  when  the  morrow  came,  my  self- 
importance  made  a  man  of  me,  and  I  was  calmer  than 
I  had  been  for  days. 


54  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

I  remember  the  knock  which  came  about  seven  in  the 
evening,  just  as  it  was  growing  gray.  I  remember  rush- 
ing from  our  parlor  to  Lenhart  Davy  on  the  doorstep. 
I  remember  our  walk,  when  my  hands  were  so  cold  and 
my  heart  was  so  hot,  so  happy.  I  remember  the  pale, 
pearly  shade  that  was  falling  on  street  and  factory,  the 
shop-lit  glare,  the  mail-coach  thundering  down  High 
Street.  I  remember  how  I  felt  entering,  from  the  dim 
evening,  the  chiaro-oscuro  of  the  corridors,  just  un- 
certainly illustrated  by  a  swinging  lamp  or  two ;  and  I 
remember  passing  into  the  hall.  Standing  upon  the 
orchestra,  giddy,  almost  fearful  to  fall  forwards  into  the 
great  unlighted  chaos,  the  windows  looked  like  clouds 
themselves,  and  every  pillar,  tier,  and  cornice  stood 
dilated  in  the  unsubstantial  space.  Lenhart  Davy  had 
to  drag  me  forwards  to  my  nook  among  the  altos,  be- 
neath the  organ,  just  against  the  conductor's  desk.  The 
orchestra  was  a  dream  to  me,  filled  with  dark  shapes, 
flitting  and  hurrying,  crossed  by  wandering  sounds, 
whispers,  and  laughter.  There  must  have  been  four  or 
five  hundred  of  us  up  there,  but  it  seems  to  me  Hke  a 
lampless  church,  as  fiill  as  it  could  be  of  people  strug- 
gling for  room. 

Davy  did  not  lose  his  hold  upon  me,  but  one  and  an- 
other addressed  him,  and  flying  remarks  reached  him 
from  every  quarter.  He  answered  in  his  hilarious  voice  ; 
but  his  manner  was  decidedly  more  distant  than  to  me 
when  alone  with  him.  At  last  some  one  appeared  at 
the  foot  of  the  orchestra  steps  with  a  taper ;  some  one 
or  other  snatched  it  from  him,  and  in  a  moment  a 
couple  of  candles  beamed  brightly  from  the  conductor's 
desk.  It  was  a  strange,  candle-light  effect  then.  Such 
great,  awful  shadows  threw  themselves  down  the  hall, 
and  so  many  faces  seemed  darker  than  they  had,  clus- 


/  A  A/  ENTRANCED.  55 

tered  in  the  glooming  twilight.  Again  some  hidden  hand 
had  touched  the  gas,  which  burst  in  tongues  of  splen- 
dor that  shook  themselves  immediately  over  us;  then 
was  the  orchestra  a  blaze  defined  as  day.  But  still  dark, 
and  darkening,  like  a  vast  abyss,  lay  the  hall  before  us ; 
and  the  great  chandeher  was  itself  a  blot,  like  a  mystery 
hung  in  circumambient  nothingness. 

I  was  lost  in  the  hght  around  me,  and  striving  to 
pierce  into  that  mystery  beyond,  when  a  whisper  thrilled 
me  :  "  Now,  Charles,  I  must  leave  you.  You  are  Mr. 
Auchester  at  present.  Stand  firm  and  sing  on.  Look 
alone  at  the  conductor,  and  think  alone  of  your  part. 
Courage!"  What  did  he  say  '' courage  "  for?  As  if 
my  heart  could  fail  me  then  and  there  ! 

I  looked  steadfastly  on.  I  saw  the  man  of  many 
years'  service  in  the  cause  of  music  looking  fresh  as  any 
youth  in  the  heyday  of  his  primal  fancy.  A  white- 
haired  man,  with  a  patriarchal  staff  besides,  which  he 
struck  upon  the  desk  for  silence,  and  then  raised,  in 
calm,  to  dispel  the  silence. 

I  can  only  say  that  my  head  swam  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  I  was  obliged  to  shut  my  eyes  before  I  could  tell 
whether  I  was  singing  or  not.  I  was  very  thankful  when 
somebody  somewhere  got  out  as  a  fugue  came  in,  and 
we  were  stopped,  because  it  gave  me  a  breathing  in- 
stant. But  then  again,  breathless,  —  nerveless,  I  might 
say,  for  I  could  not  distinguish  my  sensations, — we 
rushed  on,  or  I  did,  it  was  all  the  same ;  I  was  not  my- 
self yet.  At  length,  indeed,  it  came,  that  restoring 
sense  of  self  which  is  so  precious  at  some  times  of  our 
life.  I  recalled  exactly  where  I  was.  I  heard  myself 
singing,  felt  myself  standing ;  I  was  as  if  treading  upon 
air,  yet  fixed  as  rock.  I  arose  and  fell  upon  those 
surges  of  sustaining  sound ;  but  it  was  as  with  an  undu- 


56  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

lating  motion  itself  rest.  My  spirit  straightway  soared. 
I  could  imagine  my  own  voice,  high  above  all  the  others, 
to  ring  as  a  lark's  above  a  forest,  tuneful  with  a  thousand 
tones  more  low,  more  hidden ;  the  attendant  harmonies 
sank  as  it  were  beneath  me  ;  I  swelled  above  them.  It 
was  my  first  idea  of  paradise. 

And  it  is  perhaps  my  last. 

Let  me  not  prose  where  I  should,  most  of  all,  be 
poetical.  The  rehearsal  was  considered  very  successful. 
St.  Michel  praised  us.  He  was  a  good  old  man,  and, 
as  Davy  had  remarked,  very  steady.  There  was  a  want 
of  unction  about  his  conducting,  but  I  did  not  know 
it,  certainly  not  feel  it,  that  night.  The  "Messiah" 
was  more  hurried  through  than  it  should  have  been, 
because  of  the  late  hour,  and  also  because,  as  we  were 
reminded,  "  it  was  the  most  generally  known."  Besides, 
there  was  to  be  a  full  rehearsal  with  the  band  before  the 
festival,  but  I  was  not  to  be  present,  Davy  consider- 
ately deeding  the  full  effect  would  be  lost  for  me  were 
it  in  any  sense  to  be  anticipated. 

I  feel  I  should  only  fail  if  I  should  attempt  to  de- 
Hneate  my  sensations  on  the  first  two  days  of  perform- 
ance, for  the  single  reason  that  the  third  morning  of  that 
festival  annihilated  the  others  so  effectually  as  to  render 
me  only  master  at  this  moment  of  its  unparalleled  inci- 
dents. Those  I  bear  on  my  heart  and  in  my  life  even 
to  this  very  hour,  and  shall  take  them  with  me,  yea,  as 
a  part  of  my  essential  immortality. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE  second  night  I  had  not  slept  so  well  as  the 
first,  but  on  the  third  morning  I  was,  nathless, 
extraordinarily  fresh.  I  seemed  to  have  lived  ages,  but 
yet  all  struck  me  in  perfect  unison  as  new.  I  was  only 
too  intensely  happy  as  I  left  our  house  with  Davy,  he 
having  breakfasted  with  us. 

He  was  very  much  pleased  with  my  achievements.  I 
was  very  much  pleased  with  everything;  I  was  satu- 
rated with  pleasure.  That  day  has  lasted  me  —  a  light 
—  to  this.  Had  I  been  stricken  blind  and  deaf  after- 
wards, I  ought  not  to  have  complained,  —  so  far  would 
my  happiness,  in  degree  and  nature,  have  outweighed 
any  other  I  can  imagine  to  have  fallen  to  any  other  lot. 
Let  those  who  endure,  who  rejoice,  alike  pure  in  pas- 
sion, bless  God  for  the  power  they  possess  —  innate, 
unaHenable,  intransferable  —  of  suffering  all  they  feel. 

I  shall  never  forget  that  scene.  The  hall  was  already 
crowded  when  we  pressed  into  our  places  half  an  hour 
before  the  appointed  commencement.  Every  central 
speck  was  a  head ;  the  walls  were  pillared  with  human 
beings ;  the  swarm  increased,  floating  into  the  reserved 
places,  and  a  stream  still  poured  on  beneath  the 
gallery. 

As  if  to  fling  glory  on  music  not  of  its  own.  it  was  a 
most  splendid  day,  —  the  finest,  warmest,  and  serenest 
we  had  had  for  weeks.  Through  the  multitudinous 
panes  the  sky  was  a  positive  blaze  of  blue ;  the  sunshine 


58  CHARLES  AUCHESTER, 

fell  upon  the  orchestra  from  the  great  arched  window  at 
the  end  of  the  vaulted  building,  and  through  that  win- 
dow's purple  and  orange  border  radiated  gold  and 
amethyst  upon  the  countenances  of  the  entering  crowd. 
The  hands  of  the  clock  were  at  the  quarter  now ;  we  in 
the  chorus  wondered  that  St.  Michel  had  not  come. 
Again  they  moved,  those  noiseless  hands,  and  the 
"  tongue  "  of  iron  told  eleven.  We  all  grew  anxious. 
Still,  as  all  the  clocks  in  the  town  were  not  alike,  we 
might  be  the  mistaken  ones  by  ours.  It  now  struck 
eleven,  though,  from  the  last  church  within  our  hearing, 
and  there  was  not  yet  St.  Michel.  We  were  all  in  the 
chorus  fitted  in  so  nicely  thai  it  would  have  been 
difficult  for  some  to  get  out,  or  if  out,  impossible  to  get 
in.  They  were  all  in  the  orchestra  placed  as  closely  as 
possible,  amidst  a  perfect  grove  of  music-stands.  The 
reserved  seats  were  fuU,  the  organist  was  seated,  the 
score  lay  wide  open  upon  the  lofty  desk  ;  but  St.  Michel 
did  not  come ! 

I  shall  never  forget  how  we  wearied  and  wondered, 
and  how  I,  at  least,  racked  myself,  writhed,  and  ago- 
nized. The  door  beneath  the  orchestra  was  shut,  but 
every  instant  or  two  a  hand  turned  the  lock  outside ; 
one  agitated  face  peeped  in,  then  another,  but  were 
immediately  withdrawn.  I  scarcely  suppose  the  perfect 
silence  lasted  three  minutes ;  it  was  like  an  electrical 
suspension,  and  as  quickly  snapped.  The  surcharging 
spleen  of  the  audience  began  to  break  in  a  murmuring, 
humming,  and  buzzing,  from  centre  to  gallery.  The 
confusion  of  forms  and  faces  became  a  perfect  dream, 
it  dazzled  me  dizzy,  and  I  felt  quite  sick.  A  hundred 
fans  began  to  ply  in  the  reserved  seats,  the  gentlemen 
bent  over  the  ladies ;  the  sound  gathered  strength  and 
portentous  significance  from  the  non-explanatory  calm 


AN  ACCIDENT. 


59 


of  the  orchestra  force ;  but  all  eyes  were  turned,  all 
chins  lengthened,  towards  the  orchestra  door.  At  pre- 
cisely a  quarter  past  eleven  the  door  opened  wide,  and 
up  came  a  gentleman  in  a  white  waistcoat.  He  stood 
somewhere  in  front,  but  he  could  not  get  his  voice  out 
at  first.  Oh,  the  hisses  then !  the  shouts  !  the  execra- 
tions !  But  it  was  a  musical  assembly,  and  a  few  cries 
of  '*  Shame  !  "  hushed  the  storm  sufficiently  to  give  our 
curiosity  vent. 

The  speaker  was  a  member  of  the  committee,  and 
very  woebegone  he  looked.  He  had  to  say  (and  it  was 
of  course  his  painful  duty)  that  the  unprecedented  delay 
in  the  commencement  of  the  performance  was  occa- 
sioned by  an  inevitable  and  most  unexpected  accident 
Mr.  St.  Michel,  in  riding  from  his  house  a  few  miles  out, 
had  been  thrown  from  his  horse  at  the  corner  of  the 
market-place,  and  falling  on  his  right  arm,  had  broken  it 
below  the  elbow. 

The  suddenness  of  the  event  would  account  for  the 
delay  sufficiently  ;  all  means  at  present  were  being  em- 
ployed to  secure  the  services  of  an  efficient  resident 
professor,  and  it  was  trusted  he  would  arrive  shortly. 
Otherwise,  should  there  among  the  enlightened  audience 
be  present  any  professor  able  and  willing  to  undertake 
the  responsible  office  of  conductor  pro  te7iipore,  the 
committee  would  feel  —  A  hurricane  of  noes  tore  up 
the  rest  of  the  sentence  in  contempt,  and  flung  it  in  the 
face  of  the  gentleman  in  the  white  waistcoat.  He  still 
stood.  It  was  well  known  that  not  a  hand  could  be 
spared  from  the  orchestra ;  but  of  course  a  fancy  in- 
stantly struck  me  of  Lenhart  Davy.  I  looked  up  wist- 
fully at  him,  among  the  basses,  and  endeavored  to 
persuade  him  with  my  eyes  to  come  down.  He  smiled 
upon  me,  and  his  eye  was  kindled  ;  otherwise  he  seemed 


6o  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

determined  to  remain  as  he  was.  Davy  was  very  proud, 
though  one  of  the  most  modest  men  I  ever  knew. 

A  fresh  volley  of  hisses  broke  from  the  very  heart  of 
the  hall.  Still,  it  did  not  circulate,  though  the  confusion 
seemed  increasing  in  the  centre  ;  and  it  was  at  that  very 
instant  —  before  poor  Merlington  had  left  his  apologetic 
stand  —  that  a  form,  gliding  light,  as  if  of  air,  appeared 
hovering  on  the  steps  at  the  side  of  the  orchestra. 

It  was  a  man  at  least,  if  not  a  spirit ;  but  I  had  not 
seen  where  that  gliding  form  came  from,  with  its  light 
and  stealthy  speed. 

Swift  as  a  beam  of  morning  he  sprang  up  the  steps, 
and  with  one  hand  upon  the  balustrade  bowed  to  the 
audience.  In  a  moment  silence  seemed  to  mantle  upon 
the  hall. 

He  stood  before  the  score,  and  as  he  closed  upon  the 
time-stick  those  pointed  fingers,  he  raised  his  eyes  to 
the  chorus,  and  then  let  them  fall  upon  the  band.  Those 
piercing  eyes  recalled  us.  Every  hand  was  on  the 
bow,  every  mouthpiece  lifted.  There  was  still  silence, 
but  we  "  heai-d  "  no  "  voice."  He  raised  his  thin  arm  : 
the  overture  began.  The  curiosity  of  the  audience  had 
dilated  with  such  intensity  that  all  who  had  been  stand- 
ing, still  stood,  and  not  a  creature  stirred.  The  calm 
was  perfect  upon  which  the  ''  Grave  "  broke.  It  was 
not  interpretation  alone,  it  was  inspiration.  All  knew 
that  "  Grave,"  but  few  had  heard  it  as  it  had  been 
spoken  that  day.  It  was  then  a  heard  voice,  —  "a  voice 
from  heaven."  There  seemed  not  a  string  that  was  not 
touched  by  fire. 

The  tranquil  echo  of  the  repeat  enabled  me  to  bear 
it  sufficiently  to  look  up  and  form  some  notion  of  him 
on  whom  so  much  depended.  He  was  slight,  so  slight 
that  he  seemed  to  have  grown  out  of  the  air.     He  was 


A   MASTER-HAND.  6 1 

young,  so  young  that  he  could  not  have  numbered 
twenty  summers  ;  but  the  heights  of  eternity  were  far- 
shadowed  in  the  forehead's  marble  dream. 

A  strange  transparency  took  the  place  of  bloom  upon 
that  face  of  youth,  as  if  from  temperament  too  tender, 
or  blood  too  rarefied  ;  but  the  hair  betrayed  a  wondrous 
strength,  clustering  in  dark  curls  of  excessive  richness. 
The  pointed  fingers  were  pale,  but  they  grasped  the 
time-stick  with  an  energy  like  naked  nerve. 

But  not  until  the  violins  woke  up,  announcing  the 
subject  of  the  allegro,  did  I  feel  fully  conscious  of  that 
countenance  absolved  from  its  repose  of  perfection  by 
an  excitement  itself  divdne. 

It  would  exhaust  thought  no  less  than  words  to  de- 
scribe the  aspect  of  music,  thus  revealed,  thus  presented. 
I  was  a  little  child  then,  my  brain  was  unused  to  strong 
sensation,  and  I  can  only  say  I  remembered  not  how  he 
looked  after  all  was  over.  The  intense  impression  an- 
nihilated itself,  as  a  white,  dazzhng  fire  struck  from  a 
smith's  anvil  dies  without  ashy  sign.  I  have  since 
learned  to  discover,  to  adore,  every  express  hneament 
of  that  matchless  face ;  but  then  I  was  lost  in  gazing,  in 
a  spiritual,  ebbless  excitement,  —  then  I  was  conscious  of 
the  composition  that  he  had  made  one  with  himself, 
that  became  one  with  him. 

The  fire  with  which  he  led,  the  energy,  the  speed, 
could  only  have  been  communicated  to  an  Enghsh 
orchestra  by  such  accurate  force.  The  perfection  with 
which  the  conductor  was  endued  must  surely  have  passed 
electrically  into  every  player,  —  there  fell  not  a  note  to 
the  ground.  Such  precision  was  wellnigh  oppressive ; 
one  felt  some  hand  must  drop. 

From  beginning  to  end  of  the  allegro  not  a  disturb- 
ing sound  arose  throughout  the  hall ;  but  on  the  closing 


62  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

chord  of  the  overture  there  burst  one  deep  toll  of 
wonderful  applause.  I  can  only  call  it  a  '•  toll ;  "  it  was 
simultaneous.  The  conductor  looked  over  his  shoulder, 
and  slightly  shook  his  head.  It  was  enough,  and  silence 
reigned  as  the  heavenly  sympathy  of  the  recitative 
trembled  from  the  strings  surcharged  with  fire.  Here  it 
was  as  if  he  whispered  "Hush!  "  for  the  sobbing  stac- 
cato of  the  accompaniment  I  never  heard  so  low,  —  it 
was  silvery,  almost  awful.  The  baton  stiiTed  languidly, 
as  the  stem  of  a  wind-swept  lily,  in  those  pointed 
fingers. 

Nor  would  he  suifer  any  violence  to  be  done  to  the 
solemn  brightness  of  the  aria.  It  was  not  until  we  all 
arose  that  he  raised  his  arm,  and  impetuously,  almost 
imperiously,  fixed  upon  us  his  eyes.  He  glanced  not 
a  mo77ient  at  the  score,  he  never  turned  a  leaf,  but  he 
urged  the  time  majestically,  and  his  rapturous  beauty 
brightened  as  the  voices  firmly,  safely,  swelled  over  the 
sustaining  chords,  launched  in  glory  upon  those  waves 
of  sound. 

I  almost  forgot  the  festival.  I  am  not  certain  that  I 
remember  who  I  was,  or  where  I  was,  but  I  seemed  to 
be  singing  at  every  pore.  I  seemed  pouring  out  my 
life  instead  of  my  voice  ;  but  the  feeling  I  had  of  being 
irresistibly  borne  along  was  so  transporting  that  I  can 
conceive  of  nothing  else  like  it,  until  after  death. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

'^T^HE  chorus,  I  learned  afterwards,  was  never  recalled, 
X  so  proudly  true,  so  perfect,  so  flexible ;  but  it  was 
not  only  not  difficult  to  keep  in,  it  was  impossible  to  get 
out.  So  every  one  said  among  my  choral-  contempo- 
raries afterwards. 

I  might  recall  how  the  arias  told,  invested  with  that 
same  charm  of  subdued  and  softened  fulness ;  I  might 
name  each  chorus,  bent  to  such  strength  by  a  might 
scarcely  mortal :  but  I  dare  not  anticipate  my  after 
acquaintance  with  a  musician  who,  himself  supreme,  has 
alone  known  how  to  interpret  the  works  of  others.  I 
will  merely  advert  to  the  extraordinary  calm  that  per- 
vaded the  audience  during  the  first  part. 

Tremendous  in  revenge,  perfectly  tremendous,  was 
the  uproar  between  the  parts,  for  there  was  a  pause  and 
clearance  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I  could  not  have 
moved  for  some  moments  if  I  had  wished  it ;  as  it  was, 
I  was  nearly  pressed  to  death.  Everybody  was  talking  ; 
a  clamor  filled  the  air.  I  saw  Lenhart  Davy  afar  off, 
but  he  could  not  get  to  me.  He  looked  quite  white, 
and  his  eyes  sparkled.  As  for  me,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  the  world  was  coming  to  an  end,  so  thirsty  I 
felt,  so  dry,  so  shaken  from  head  to  foot.  I  could 
scarcely  feel  the  ground,  and  I  could  not  lift  my  knees, 
they  were  so  stiff. 

But  still  with  infatuation  I  watched  the  conductor, 
though  I  suffered  not  my  eyes  to  wander  to  his  face  ;  I 
dared  not  look  at  him,  I  felt  too  awful.     He  was  sud- 


64  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

denly  surrounded  by  gentlemen,  the  members  of  the 
committee.  I  knew  they  were  there,  bustling,  skurry- 
ing,  and  I  listened  to  their  intrusive  tones.  As  the 
chorus  pressed  by  me  I  was  obliged  to  advance  a  little, 
and  I  heard,  in  a  quiet  foreign  accent,  deUcate  as  clear, 
these  words  :  "  Nothing,  thank  you,  but  a  glass  of  pure 
water." 

Trembling,  hot,  and  dizzy,  almost  mad  with  impa- 
tience, I  pushed  through  the  crowd ;  it  was  rather 
thinner  now,  but  I  had  to  drive  my  head  against  many 
a  knot,  and  when  I  could  not  divide  the  groups  I  dived 
underneath  their  arms.  I  cannot  tell  how  I  got  out, 
but  I  literally  leaped  the  stau-s ;  in  two  or  three  steps  I 
cleared  the  gallery.  Once  in  the  refreshment  room,  I 
snatched  a  glass  jug  that  stood  in  a  pail  filled  with  lumps 
of  ice,  and  a  tumbler,  and  made  away  with  them  before 
the  lady  who  was  superintending  that  table  had  turned 
her  head.  I  had  never  a  stumbling  footstep,  and  though 
I  sprang  back  again,  I  did  not  spill  a  drop.  I  knew  the 
hall  was  half  empty,  so  taking  a  short  way  that  led  me 
into  it,  I  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  orchestra.  I  stood 
the  tumbler  upon  a  form,  and  filling  it  to  the  brim,  left 
the  beaker  behind  me  and  rushed  up  the  orchestra 
stairs. 

He  was  still  there,  leaning  upon  the  score,  with  his 
hands  upon  his  face,  and  his  eyes  hidden.  I  advanced 
very  quietly,  but  he  heard  me,  and  without  raising  him- 
self from  the  desk,  let  his  hands  fall,  elevated  his  counte- 
nance, and  watched  me  as  I  approached  him. 

I  trembled  so  violently  then,  taken  with  a  fresh 
shudder  of  excitement,  that  I  could  not  lift  the  tumbler 
to  present  it.  I  saw  a  person  from  the  other  side  ad- 
vancing with  a  tray,  and  dreading  to  be  supplanted, 
I  looked  up   with  desperate  entreaty.      The  unknown 


A    VOICE  I  CAN  NEVER  FORGET.  65 

Stretched  his  arm  and  raised  the  glass,  taking  it  from 
me,  to  his  hps.  Around  those  hps  a  shadowy  half-smile 
was  playing,  but  they  were  white  with  fatigue  or  excite- 
ment, and  he  drank  the  water  instantly,  as  if  athirst. 

Then  he  returned  to  me  the  glass,  empty,  with  a 
gentle  but  absent  air,  paused  one  moment,  and  now,  as  if 
restored  to  himself,  fully  regarded  me,  and  fully  smiled. 

DowTi-gazing,  those  deep-colored  eyes  upon  me 
seemed  distant  as  the  stars  of  heaven ;  but  there  was 
an  almost  pitying  sweetness  in  his  tone  as  he  addressed 
me.  I  shall  never  forget  that  tone,  nor  how  my  eyehds 
quivered  with  the  longing  want  to  weep. 

"  It  was  very  refreshing,"  he  said.  "How  much  more 
strengthening  is  water  than  wine  1  Thank  you  for  the 
trouble  you  took  to  fetch  it.  And  you,  you  sang  also  in 
the  chorus.     It  was  beautifully  done." 

••May  I  tell  them  so,  sir?"  I  asked  him,  eagerly, 
without  being  able  to  help  speaking  in  some  reply. 

"Yes,  every  one;  but  above  all,  the  little  ones;" 
and  again  he  faintly  smiled. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  score,  and  drooping  over  the 
desk,  seemed  to  pass  back  into  himself,  alone,  by  him- 
self companioned.  And  in  an  agony  of  fear  lest  I 
should  intrude  for  a  moment  even,  I  sped  as  fast  as 
I  had  entered  from  his  mysterious  presence. 

To  this  hour  I  cannot  find  in  my  memory  the  tone  in 
which  he  spoke  that  day.  Though  I  have  heard  that 
voice  so  often  since,  have  listened  to  it  in  a  trance  of 
hfe,  I  can  never  reahze  //,  —  it  was  too  unearthly,  and 
became  part  of  what  I  shall  be,  having  distilled  from  the 
essence  of  my  being,  as  I  am. 

Well,  I  came  upon  Lenhart  Davy  in  one  of  the  pas- 
sages as  I  was  running  back.     I  fell,  in  fact,  against  him. 
and  he  caught  me  in  his  arms. 
VOL.  I. —  5 


66  CHARLES  A  [/CHESTER, 

"Charles  Auchester,  where  have  you  been?  You 
have  frightened  me  sorely.  I  thought  I  had  lost  you,  I 
did  indeed,  and  have  been  looking  for  you  ever  since 
we  came  out  of  the  hall." 

As  soon  as  I  could  collect  enough  of  myself  to  put 
into  words,  I  exclaimed  ecstatically,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Davy  ! 
I  have  been  talking  to  the  man  in  the  orchestra  ! " 

"You  have,  indeed,  you  presumptuous  atomy  !  "  and 
he  laughed  in  his  own  way,  adding,  "I  did  not  expect 
you  would  blow  into  an  hero  quite  so  soon.  And  is 
our  hero  up  there  still?  My  dear  Charles,  you  must 
have  been  mistaken,  he  must  be  in  the  committee- 
room." 

"  No,  I  was  not.  The  idea  of  my  mistaking  !  as 
if  anybody  else  could  be  like  him  !  He  is  up  there  now, 
and  he  would  not  come  down,  though  they  asked  him  ; 
and  he  said  he  would  only  drink  a  glass  of  water,  and  I 
heard  him,  for  I  waited  to  see,  and  I  fetched  it,  and  he 
drank  it  —  there!"  and  I  flung  myself  round  Davy 
again,  almost  exhausted  with  joy. 

"  And  he  spoke  to  you,  did  he,  Charles  ?  My  own 
little  boy,  be  still,  or  I  shall  have  to  fetch  you  a  glass  of 
water.  I  am  really  afraid  of  all  this  excitement,  for 
which  you  seem  to  come  in  naturally." 

"  So  I  do,  Mr.  Davy ;  but  do  tell  me  who  is  that 
man?" 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  Davy,  himself  so  flushed  now 
that  I  could  hardly  think  him  the  same  person,  "  un- 
less, by  some  extraordinary  chance,  it  may  be  Milans- 
Andre." 

"  No,  no  ! "  exclaimed  one  of  our  contemporaries, 
who,  in  returning  to  the  orchestra,  overheard  the  remark. 
"  No,  no  !  it  is  not  Milans- Andre.  Mr.  Hermann, 
the  leader,  has  seen  Milans-Andre  in  Paris.     No,  it  is 


CONJECTURE.  6/ 

some  nobleman,  they  say,  —  a  German  prince.  They  all 
know  Handel  in  Germany." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  replied  Davy,  "  they  don't  know 
Handel  better  in  Germany  than  we  do  in  England ; " 
but  he  spoke  as  if  to  me,  having  turned  from  the  per- 
son who  addressed  him. 

"  Don't  they,  Mr.  Davy  ?  But  he  does  look  like  a 
prince." 

"  Not  a  German  prince,  my  Charles.  He  is  more 
like  one  of  your  favorite  Jews,  —  and  that  is  where  it  is, 
no  doubt." 

"  Davy,  Davy  !  "  exclaimed  again  another,  one  of  the 
professors  in  the  town,  "  can  it  be  Milans-Andre  ?  " 

"  They  say  not,  Mr.  Westley.  I  do  not  know  myself, 
but  I  should  have  thought  Monsieur  Andre  must  be 
older  than  this  gentleman,  who  does  not  look  twenty." 

"  Oh  !  he  is  more  than  twenty." 

"  As  you  please,"  muttered  Davy,  merrily,  as  he  turned 
again  to  me.  "  My  boy,  we  must  not  stand  here  ;  we 
shall  lose  our  old  places.  Do  not  forget  to  remain  in 
yours,  when  it  is  over,  till  I  come  to  fetch  you." 

When  it  is  over !  Oh,  cruel  Lenhart  Davy  !  to  re- 
mind me  that  it  would  ever  end.  I  felt  it  cruel  then, 
but  perhaps  I  felt  too  much,  —  I  always  do,  and  I  hope 
I  always  shall. 

Again  marshalled  in  our  places  (I  having  crept  to 
mine),  and  again  fitted  in  very  tightly,  we  all  arose.  I 
suppose  it  was  the  oppression  of  so  many  round  me 
standing,  superadded  to  the  strong  excitement,  but  the 
whole  time  the  chorus  lasted,  "  Behold  the  Lamb  of 
God  !"  I  could  not  sing.  I  stood  and  sobbed  ;  but  even 
then  I  had  respect  to  Davy's  neatly  copied  alto  sheet, 
and  I  only  shaded  my  eyes  with  that,  and  wept  upon 
the  floor.      Nobody  near  observed  me  ;  they  were   all 


68  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

singing  with  all  their  might;  I  alone  dared  to  look 
down,  ever  down,  and  weep  upon  the  floor. 

Such  tears  I  never  shed  before ;  they  were  as  neces- 
sary as  dew  after  a  cloudless  day,  and,  to  pursue  my 
figure,  I  awoke  again  at  the  conclusion  of  the  chorus 
to  a  deep,  rapturous  serenity,  pure  as  twilight,  and  gazed 
upwards  at  the  stars,  whose  "  smile  was  Paradise,"  with 
my  heart  again  all  voice. 

I  believe  the  chorus,  "  Lift  up  your  heads  !  "  will  never 
again  be  heard  in  England  as  it  was  heard  then,  and  I 
am  quite  certain  of  the  "  Hallelujah."  It  was  as  close, 
as  clear,  and  the  power  that  bound  the  band  ahke  con- 
strained the  chorus ;  both  seemed  freed  from  all  respon- 
sibility, and  alone  to  depend  upon  the  will  that  swayed, 
that  stirred,  with  a  spell  real  as  supernatural,  and  sweet 
as  strange. 

Perhaps  the  most  immediate  consequence  of  such 
faultless  interpretation  was  the  remarkable  stillness  of 
the  audience.  Doubtless  a  few  there  were  who  were 
calm  in  critical  pique,  but  I  beheve  the  majority  dared 
not  applaud,  so  decided  had  been  the  negative  of  that 
graceful  sign  at  the  commencement  of  the  performance  ; 
besides,  a  breathless  curiosity  brooded,  as  distinctly  to  be 
traced  in  the  countenance  of  the  crowd  as  in  their  thrill- 
ing quietude,  —  for  thrilling  it  was  indeed,  though  not 
so  thrilling  as  the  outbreak,  the  tempest  out-rolling  of 
pent-up  satisfaction  at  the  end  of  the  final  chorus.  That 
chorus  (it  was  well  indeed  it  was  the  last)  seemed  alone 
to  have  exhausted  the  strength  of  the  conductor ;  his 
arm  suddenly  seemed  to  tire,  he  entirely  relaxed,  and 
the  delicate  but  burning  hectic  on  each  cheek  alone 
remained,  the  seal  of  his  celestial  passion. 

He  turned  as  soon  as  the  applause,  instead  of  de- 
creasing, persisted  ;  for  at  first  he  had  remained  with  his 


DISAPPEARANCE.  69 

face  towards  the  choir.  As  the  shouts  still  reached  him, 
and  the  sea  of  heads  began  to  fluctuate,  he  bent  a  httle 
in  acknowledgment,  but  nevertheless  preserved  the  same 
air  of  indifference  and  abstraction  from  all  about,  be- 
neath him.  Lingering  only  until  the  way  was  cleared 
below  the  orchestra  steps,  he  retreated  down  them  even 
before  the  applause  had  ceased,  and  before  any  one 
could  approach  him,  without  addressing  any  one,  he 
left  the  hall. 

And  of  him  nothing  afterwards  was  heard,  —  I  mean 
at  that  time.  Not  a  soul  in  the  whole  town  had  learned 
his  name,  and  the  hotel  at  which  he  had  slept  the  night 
before  was  in  vain  attacked  by  spies  on  every  errand. 
The  landlord  could  only  say  what  he  knew  himself,  —  that 
he  was  a  stranger  who  had  visited  the  place  for  the  pur- 
pose of  attending  the  festival,  and  who,  having  fulfilled 
that  purpose,  had  left  the  city  unknown,  unnamed,  as  he 
entered  it. 

I  believe  most  children  of  my  age  would  have  had  a 
fit  of  illness  after  an  excitement  of  brain  and  of  body 
so  peculiar ;  but  perhaps  had  I  been  less  excited  I  should 
have  been  worse  off  afterwards.  As  it  was,  the  storm 
into  which  I  had  been  wrought  subsided  of  itself,  and  I 
was  the  better  for  it,  —  just  as  Nature  is  said  to  be  after 
her  disturbances  of  a  similar  description.  Davy  took 
me  home,  and  then  set  off  to  his  own  house,  where  he 
always  seemed  to  have  so  much  to  do  ;  and  all  my  peo- 
ple were  very  kind  to  me  in  listening,  while  I,  more 
calmly  than  any  one  would  believe,  expatiated  upon  our 
grand  adventure.  I  was  extremely  amused  to  see  how 
astonished  Clo  was  to  find  me  so  reasonable ;  for  her 
only  fear  had  been,  she  informed  my  mother,  that 
Charles  would  not  settle  to  anything  for  weeks  if  he 
were  allowed    to  go.      And  Millicent  was  very  much 


'JO  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

astonished  that  I  spoke  so  little  of  the  performance 
itself.  I  could  only  defend  myself  by  saying,  "  If  you 
had  seen  him  you  would  not  wonder." 

"Is  he  handsome,  Charles?"  said  Lydia,  innocently, 
with  her  brown  eyes  fixed  upon  her  thimble  (which  she 
held  upon  her  finger,  and  was  shocked  to  perceive  a 
little  tarnished).  I  was  so  angry  that  I  felt  myself  turn 
quite  sick ;  but  I  was  good  enough  only  to  answer, 
"  You  would  not  think  so ;  "  for  so  I  beheve.  Milli- 
cent  softly  watched  me,  and  added,  "  Charlie  means,  I 
think,  that  it  was  a  very  beautiful  face." 

"I  do,"  I  said  bluntly;  "I  shall  never  see  a  beautiful 
face  again.  You  will  never  see  one  at  all,  as  you  have 
not  seen  that'' 

"Pity  us  then,  Charles,"  replied  Miliicent,  in  her 
gentlest  voice. 

I  climbed  upon  her  lap.  "  Oh,  no,  dear  !  It  is  you 
who  must  pity  me,  because  you  do  not  know  what  it  is, 
and  I  do,  and  I  have  lost  it." 

Lydia  lifted  her  eyes  and  made  them  very  round  ;  but 
as  I  was  put  to  bed  directly,  nobody  heard  any  more  of 
me  that  night. 


CHAPTER   X. 

IT  was  very  strange,  or  rather  it  was  just  natural,  that 
I  should  feel  so  singularly  low  next  day.  I  was 
not  exactly  tired,  and  I  was  not  exactly  miserable.  I 
was  perfectly  blank,  like  a  sunless  autumn  day,  with  no 
wind  about.  I  lay  very  late  in  bed,  and  as  I  lay  there 
I  no  more  believed  the  events  of  yesterday  than  if  they 
had  been  a  dream.  I  was  literall}*  obliged  to  touch 
myself,  my  hair,  my  face,  and  the  bed-clothes  before  I 
could  persuade  myself  that  I  was  not  myself  a  dream. 
The  cold  bath  restored  me,  into  which  I  daily  sprang, 
summer  and  winter  aUke ;  but  I  grew  worse  again  after 
breakfast. 

Yearning  to  re-excite  myself  in  some  fashion,  I 
marched  into  the  parlor  and  requested  Clo  to  teach  me 
as  usual.  There  she  was,  in  her  gray-silk  gown,  peering 
(with  her  short-sightedness)  into  Herodotus  j  but  though 
all  my  books  were  placed  upon  the  table  by  her,  I  could 
tell  very  easily  that  she  had  not  expected  me,  and  was 
very  much  pleased  I  should  come.  Her  approbation 
overcame  me,  and  instead  of  blotting  my  copy  with  ink, 
I  used  my  tears.  They  were  tears  I  could  no  more 
have  helped  shedding  than  I  could  have  helped  breath- 
ing. Clo  was  very  kind,  she  looked  at  me  solemnly, 
not  severely,  and  solemnly  administered  the  consolation 
that  they  were  the  effect  of  excitement.  I  did  not 
think  so ;  I  thought  they  were  the  effect  of  a  want  of 
excitement,  but  I  said  nothing  to  her. 


-J 2  CHARLES  AUCIIESTER. 

I  overcame  them,  and  was  quiet  for  the  rest  of  the 
day,  and  for  several  days ;  but  imagine  what  I  suffered 
when  I  saw  no  more  of  Lenhart  Davy.  As  the  world 
in  our  house  went  on  just  the  same  as  before  the  festival, 
and  as  I  had  no  hand  in  keeping  the  house  so  charm- 
ingly, nor  any  part  in  committees  for  dinner,  nor  in 
pickling  speculations,  I  was  fairly  left  to  myself  with  my 
new  discovery  about  myself;  namely,  that  I  must  be  a 
musician,  or  I  should  perish. 

Had  I  only  seen  Lenhart  Davy,  I  could  have  told 
him  all.  I  believe  my  attraction  towards  him  was  irre- 
sistible, or  I  should  never  have  thought  of  him  while  he 
stayed  away,  it  would  have  hurt  me  too  much ;  for  I 
was  painfully,  may  be  vainly,  sensitive,  I  was  not  able 
to  appreciate  his  delicacy  of  judgment,  as  well  as  feeling, 
in  abstaining  from  any  further  communication  with  us 
until  we  ourselves  reminded  him  of  us.  I  had  no  hope  ; 
and  the  four  or  five  days  I  have  mentioned  as  passing 
without  his  apparition  seemed  to  annihilate  my  future. 
I  quite  drooped,  I  could  not  help  it :  and  my  mother 
was  evidently  anxious.  She  made  me  bring  out  my 
tongue  a  dozen  times  a  day,  and  she  continually  sighed, 
as  if  reproaching  herself  with  something.  How  long  it 
seemed !  quite  four  months,  as  I  used  to  reckon.  I 
never  once  alluded  to  Lenhart  Davy,  but  others  did,  — 
at  least  not  Millicent,  but  Lydia  and  my  eldest  sister. 
Lydia  made  the  observation  that  perhaps  he  was  too 
modest  to  come  without  a  special  invitation ;  but  Clo 
hurt  me  far  more  by  saying  that  he  had  no  doubt  better 
engagements  elsewhere.  On  the  evening  of  the  fifth 
day  I  was  sitting  upon  the  stool  in  the  parlor  by  the 
window,  after  tea,  endeavoring  to  gather  my  wandering 
fancies  to  "Simple  Susan,"  her  simple  woes,  pleasures, 
and  loves  (for  Clo  was  there,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  be 


A    Qi'ESTION.  J I 

noticed),  when  Millicent  came  into  the  room  and  said 
my  mother  wished  to  speak  to  me  upstairs.  I  went 
out  with  MiUicent.  "  What  does  she  want  —  I  mean 
mother?"    I  inquired,  no  doubt  rather  peevishly. 

"She  wants  to  ask  you  a  question  you  will  like  to 
answer,  Charles." 

"  Shall  I  ?  —  what  is  it  ?  I  don't  think  I  shall  Hke  to 
answer  any  question.  Oh,  Millicent !  "  and  I  hid  my 
small  face  in  the  folds  of  her  dark-blue  frock. 

"  Come,  Charles  !  you  know  I  would  not  deceive  you. 
Darling,  you  must  not  feel  so  much." 

And  she  stooped  to  kiss  me,  smiling,  though  the  tears 
were  in  her  eyes.  I  still  persisted  in  hiding  my  head, 
and  when  we  reached  the  door  of  the  dressing-room,  I 
went  in  cr}ang.  My  mother  sat  in  a  great  white  chair 
beside  the  fire  ;  next  her  stood  a  small  table  covered 
with  hose,  —  the  hose  of  the  whole  household. 

"  How,  Charles  !  how  now  !  Be  a  man,  or  at  least  a 
boy,  or  I  am  sure  I  had  better  not  ask  you  what  I  sent 
for  you  to  answer.  Come,  say,  would  you  like  to  sing 
in  Mr.  Davy's  class  ?  You  must  not  give  up  your  old 
lessons,  nor  must  you  forget  to  take  great  pains  to  wTite, 
to  cipher,  and  to  read  as  well ;  but  I  think  you  are  very 
fond  of  singing  since  you  found  your  voice,  and  Mr. 
Davy,  to  whom  I  wrote,  says  you  can  be  of  use  to  him, 
and  that  he  will  be  so  very  good  as  to  teach  you  what  he 
teaches  the  others,  —  to  understand  what  you  sing." 

Dear  Millicent !  I  knew  I  owed  it  all  to  her,  for 
there  had  been  that  in  her  face,  her  manner,  and  her 
kind  eyes  that  told  me  she  had  felt  for  me  in  my  desola- 
tion ;  and  now  as  she  stood  apart  from  my  mother  and 
me,  I  ran  to  her  and  told  her  so  —  that  I  knew  it  all.  I 
will  not  dwell  upon  the  solicitude  of  CIo,  lest  I  should 
become  unmanageable  in  the  midst  of  my  satisfaction. 


74  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

nor  upon  Lydia's  amazement  at  my  mother's  allowing 
me  to  join  the  class ;  but  I  well  recollect  how  Millicent 
kept  fast  by  me,  her  will,  as  it  were,  upon  mine,  and 
her  reminding  calmness  ever  possessing  me,  lest  I  should 
by  my  ecstatic  behavior  forfeit  my  right  to  my  new 
privileges.  I  was  quite  good  enough,  though,  in  the 
general  opinion,  to  be  permitted  to  go,  as  arranged,  on 
the  following  Tuesday  evening. 

Lenhart  Davy  dined  with  us  on  Sunday,  by  special 
invitation,  written  by  my  mother,  conveyed  by  my 
Margareth.  He  told  me  that  I  must  not  mistake  his 
silence  if  he  spoke  not  to  me  nor  noticed  me  when 
he  was  amidst  his  pupils.  I  perfectly  understood  even 
then  how  much  depended  upon  his  sagacious  self- 
dependence. 

The  class  assembled  from  six  till  eight  in  the  evening, 
twice  a  week ;  the  room  Davy  convoked  it  in  was  one 
he  hired  expressly.  My  mother  sent  me  with  Margareth, 
who  was  to  fetch  me  again  at  the  expiration  of  two 
hours,  —  at  least  during  the  winter,  which  was  fast 
approaching. 

And  thus,  had  it  not  been  for  the  festival,  I  should 
have  been  at  once  initiated  into  "  choral  life." 

Though,  indeed,  but  for  that  glorious  time,  and  my 
own  fantastic  courage,  first-fruit  of  a  musical  tempera- 
ment, I  had  perhaps  never  been  taught  to  give  that 
name  where  I  can  now  bestow  none  other,  so  com- 
pletely has  choral  worship  passed  into  my  life. 

When  Margareth  left  me  at  the  door  of  a  house  I  had 
never  entered,  —  though  I  knew  it  well,  for  it  was  let  out 
in  auction-rooms,  for  committees  and  the  hke,  —  I  felt 
far  more  wild  and  lost  than  when  I  attended  the  grand 
rehearsal  hand  in  hand  with  Lenhart  Davy.  He  was 
my  master,  though,  —  I  remembered  this,  and  also  that 


THE   CLASSROOM.  75 

he  expected  a  great  deal  of  me,  for  he  had  told  me  so, 
and  that  he  had  appointed  me  a  high  place  among  the 
altos.  I  had  my  numbered  ticket  in  my  hand,  and 
upon  it  my  name,  and  I  showed  it  to  a  man  who  was 
standing  above  at  the  top  of  the  steep  staircase.  He 
looked  at  it,  nodded,  and  pushed  me  in. 

The  room  was  tolerably  large  and  high,  and  Hghted 
by  gas-burners,  which  fully  illustrated  the  bareness  of 
wall  and  floor  and  ceiling.  Accustomed  to  carpets  in 
every  chamber,  nay,  in  every  passage,  I  was  horrified  to 
hear  my  own  footfall  upon  the  boards  as  I  traversed  the 
backs  of  those  raised  forms,  one  above  the  other,  full  of 
people.  Boys  and  men,  and  women  and  girls,  seemed  all 
mixed  up  together,  and  all  watching  me  ;  for  I  was  late, 
and  quite  dreamy  with  walking  through  the  twilight 
town.  Several  beckoning  hands  were  raised  as  I  in- 
quired for  the  place  of  the  altos,  and  I  took  my  seat 
just  where  a  number,  nailed  to  the  form,  answered  to  the 
number  on  my  ticket. 


CHAPTER   XL 

I  WAS  too  satisfied  to  have  found  my  way  safely  in, 
and  too  glad  to  feel  deposited  somewhere,  to  gaze 
round  me  just  then  ;  but  a  door  opened  with  a  creaking 
hinge  on  the  ground  floor  below,  and  as  perfect  in  my 
eyes  as  ever,  stepped  forth  Lenhart  Davy  and  bowed  to 
his  whole  class.  He  carried  a  little  time-stick  in  his 
hands,  but  nothing  else ;  and  as  he  placed  himself  in 
front,  immediately  beneath  the  lowest  form,  I  was  con- 
scious, though  I  beheve  no  one  else  present  could  be, 
of  the  powerful  control  he  had  placed  as  a  barrier 
between  himself  and  those  before  him,  —  between  his 
active  and  his  passive  being. 

He  began  to  address  us  in  his  fine,  easy  tones,  in 
language  pure  enough  for  the  proudest  intellect,  suffi- 
ciently simple  for  the  least  cultured  ear ;  and  he  spoke 
chiefly  of  what  he  had  said  the  time  before,  recapitula- 
ting, and  pausing  to  receive  questions  or  to  elicit  an- 
swers. But  all  he  said,  whatever  it  was  to  others,  was 
to  me  a  highly  spiritual  analysis  of  what  most  teachers 
endeavor  to  lower  and  to  explain  away,  —  the  mystery 
and  integrity  of  the  musical  art. 

He  touched  very  lightly  upon  theory,  but  expounded 
sounds  by  signs  in  a  manner  of  his  own,  which  it  is  not 
necessary  to  communicate,  as  its  results  were  those  of 
no  system  whatever,  but  was  apphed  by  wisdom,  and 
enforced  by  gradual  acquaintance. 

We  did  not  begin  to  sing  for  at  least  half  an  hour  ; 
but  he  then  unlocked  a  huge  closet,  drew  forth  an  enor- 


THE   CLASS.  77 

mous  board,  and  mapped  thereon  in  white  chalk  the 
exercises  of  his  own  preparation  for  our  evening's  prac- 
tice. These  were  pure,  were  simple,  as  his  introductory 
address. 

As  I  have  said,  the  class  was  only  just  organized,  but 
it  was  not  a  very  small  one  ;  there  must  have  been  sixty 
or  seventy  present  that  night.  I  was  in  the  topmost 
row  of  altos,  and  as  soon  as  we  began  to  sing  I  was 
irresistibly  attracted  to  those  about  me  ;  and  to  identify 
them  with  their  voices  was  for  me  a  singular  fascination. 
I  was  but  the  fourth  from  the  wall  on  my  side,  and  a 
burner  was  directly  above  me.  I  took  advantage  of  the 
light  to  criticise  the  countenances  of  my  nearer  contem- 
poraries, who  were  all  absorbed  in  watching  our  master's 
evolutions.  I  could  not  look  at  him  until  I  had  ac- 
quainted myself  with  my  locality,  as  far  as  I  could 
without  staring,  or  being  stared  at.  Next  the  wall,  two 
boys  (so  alike  that  they  could  only  have  been  brothers) 
nesded  and  bawled ;  they  were  dark-hued,  yet  sallow, 
and  not  inviting.  I  concluded  they  came  from  some 
factory,  and  so  they  did ;  but  they  did  not  please  me 
enough  to  detain  my  attention,  —  they  were  beneath  my 
own  grade.  So  was  a  little  girl  nearest  to  them  and 
next  to  me,  but  I  could  not  help  regarding  her.  She 
had  the  most  imperturbable  gaze  I  ever  met,  —  great 
eyes  of  a  yellow  hazel,  with  no  more  expression  in  them 
than  water ;  but  her  cheeks  were  brightly  colored,  and 
her  long  auburn  hair  was  curled  to  her  waist. 

An  ease  pervaded  her  that  was  more  than  elegance. 
She  leaned  and  she  lounged,  singing  in  a  flexible  voice, 
without  the  slightest  effort,  and  as  carelessly  as  she 
looked.  She  wore  a  pink  gingham  frock,  ill  made  to  a 
degree,  but  her  slender  figure  moved  in  and  out  of  it 
like  a  reed ;  her  hands  were  fitted  into  discolored  light 


78  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

kid  gloves,  and  she  had  on  an  amber  necklace.  This 
alone  would  have  disgusted  me,  if  she  had  not  looked  so 
unconcerned,  so  strange,  and  if  I  had  not  thought  her 
hair  so  very  pretty ;  but  I  did,  and,  as  I  have  said,  I 
could  not  avoid  regarding  her.  She  had  her  bonnet  in 
her  lap  (a  bruised  muslin  one,  with  tumbled  satin 
strings) ;  and  I  was  surveying  it  rather  closely,  when  she 
turned  upon  me  and  whispered  loud,  not  low  (and  then 
went  on  singing  herself,  instantly),  "Why  don't  you 
sing?"  Scared  and  shocked,  I  drew  myself  away  from 
her  as  far  as  possible,  and  moved  my  eyes  to  my  other 
neighbor.  It  was  a  girl  too ;  but  I  instantly  felt  the 
words  "  young  lady  "  to  be  appropriate,  though  I  knew 
not  wherefore,  except  that  she  was,  as  it  were,  so  per- 
fectly self-possessed.  She  must  be  older  than  I  am  (it 
occurred  to  me),  but  I  could  not  tell  how  much.  She 
was,  in  fact,  about  fourteen. 

It  was  some  relief  to  look  upon  her,  after  being  at- 
tacked by  the  quick  little  being  on  my  right  hand,  be- 
cause she  seemed  as  utterly  indisposed  to  address  me  as 
the  other  had  been  determined.  She  did  not  seem  even 
to  see  me,  nor  give  the  least  glance  at  anybody  or  any- 
thing, except  Lenhart  Davy  and  his  board.  Upon  them 
she  fastened  her  whole  expression,  and  she  sang  with 
assiduous  calmness.  So,  though  I  sang  too,  fearing  my 
friend  would  observe  my  silence,  I  turned  quite  towards 
my  young  lady  and  watched  her  intensely,  —  she  noti- 
cing me  no  more  than  she  would  have  noticed  a  fly  walk- 
ing upon  the  wall,  or  upon  Lenhart  Davy's  board.  I 
was  very  fastidious  then,  whatever  I  may  be  now,  and  I 
seldom  gazed  upon  a  face  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  it. 
In  this  instance  I  experienced  a  feeling  beyond  pleasure, 
so  exquisitely  did  the  countenance  beside  me  harmonize 
with  something  in  myself.     Not  strictly  fine,  nor  severely 


AlSr  INFA  TUA  TWN.  79 

perfect  in  outline  or  of  hue,  this  sweet  face  shone  in 
glory  not  its  own,  —  the  most  ardent  musical  intention 
lay  upon  the  eyes,  the  lips,  the  brow ;  and  the  deep 
lashes  themselves  seemed  born  to  shade  from  too  much 
brightness  a  beholder  like  myself. 

I  thought  her  a  young  woman,  and  so  she  was,  com- 
pared with  my  age,  at  least ;  but  my  awe  and  her  exal- 
tation were  measured  by  a  distant  self-possession  towards 
me,  towards  all.  She  was  not  dressed  with  much  more 
costhness  than  my  wild  little  rebuker ;  but  her  plain  black 
frock  fitted  her  beautifully,  and  her  dark  gloves,  and  the 
dark  ribbon  on  her  hat,  and  her  little  round  muff,  satisfied 
me  as  to  her  gentle  and  her  womanly  pretensions. 

In  linking  these  adjectives,  you  will  realize  one  of 
my  infatuations  wherever  they  are  substantively  found. 
Enough.  I  dared  not  leave  off  singing,  and  my  voice  was 
rather  strong,  so  I  could  not  clearly  decide  upon  hers, 
until  Davy  wrote  up  a  few  intervals  for  unisons,  which 
very  few  of  us  achieved  on  the  instant.  My  calm  com- 
panion was  among  those  who  did.  Her  voice  was  more 
touching  than  any  I  had  ever  heard,  and  a  true  con- 
tralto ;  only  more  soft  than  deep,  more  distilling  than 
low.  But  unknowing  as  I  was,  I  was  certain  she  had 
sung,  and  had  learned  to  sing,  long  before  she  had 
joined  the  class ;  for  in  her  singing  there  was  that  puri- 
fied quality  which  reminds  one  (it  did  me)  of  filtered 
water,  and  she  pronounced  most  skilfully  the  varied 
vocables.  I  felt  afterwards  that  she  must  have  been  an- 
noyed at  my  pertinacious  scrutiny,  but  she  betrayed  not 
the  remotest  cognizance  of  me  or  my  regards ;  and  this 
indifference  compelled  me  to  watch  her  far  more  than 
sympathetic  behavior  would  have  done.  That  evening 
seemed  long  to  me  while  we  were  at  work,  but  I  could 
not  bear  the  breaking-up.     I  had  become,  as  it  were, 


8o  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

connected  with  my  companions,  though  we  had  not  ex- 
changed a  word.  I  was  rather  disposed  to  wait  and  see 
who  would  join  my  httle  girl  with  her  wild  eyes,  and  my 
serene  young  lady.  I  beheve  I  should  have  done  so, 
but  Lenhart  Davy  kindly  came  up  from  below  and 
shook  hands  with  me  \  and  while  I  was  receiving  and 
returning  his  greeting,  they  were  lost  in  the  general 
crowd. 

He  took  me  himself  down  stairs  to  Margareth,  who 
was  awaiting  me  with  a  cloak  and  a  comforter  in  a  little 
unfurnished  room  ;  and  then  he  himself  departed,  look- 
ing very  tired. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

I  DID  not  see  him  again  until  the  next  class-night.  It 
was  strange  to  find  the  same  faces  about  me ;  and 
above  all,  my  two  heroines,  dressed  exactly  as  on  the 
first  occasion,  except  that  the  pink  frock  was  rather  less 
brilliant.  I  listened  eagerly  for  those  pure  tones  to 
swell,  communing  with  my  own,  and  I  was  not  disap- 
pointed. We  did  not  snig  anything  that  I  can  specify 
at  present ;  but  it  was  more  than  pleasure  —  it  was  vitality 
—  to  me  to  fling  out  my  own  buoyant  notes  far  and  wide, 
supported,  as  it  were,  by  an  atmosphere  of  commingling 
sounds.  I  suppose,  therefore,  that  I  may  have  been 
singing  very  loud  when  the  daring  Httle  head  out  of  the 
muslin  bonnet  put  itself  into  my  face  and  chanted,  in 
strict  attention  to  Davy's  rules  all  the  time,  "  How  beau- 
tifully you  do  sing  ! "  I  was  hushed  for  the  moment, 
and  should  have  been  vexed  if  I  had  not  been  fright- 
ened ;  for  I  was  ridiculously  timorous  as  a  child. 

She  then  brought  from  the  crown  of  her  bonnet  a 
paper  full  of  bonbons,  which  she  opened  and  presented 
to  me.  I  rephed  very  sharply,  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  don't 
eat  while  I  am  singing,"  and  should  have  taken  no 
more  notice  of  her ;  but  she  now  raised  upon  me  her 
large  eyes  to  the  full,  and  still  pushed  the  bonbon  paper 
at  me,  —  almost  in  my  face  too.  I  was  too  well  bred  to 
push  it  away,  but  too  honest  not  to  say,  when  she  still 
persisted  in  offering  the  saccharine  conglomeration,  "  I 
don't  like  curl  papers."     The  child  turned  from  me  with 

VOL.  I.  —  6 


82  CHARLES  AC/CHESTER. 

a  fierce  gesture,  but  her  eyes  were  now  swimming  in 
tears.  I  was  astonished,  angry,  melted.  I  at  length 
reproached  myself;  and  though  I  could  not  bring  my- 
self to  touch  the  colored  chocolates,  crumbled  up  as 
they  had  been  in  her  hand,  I  did  condescend  to  whis- 
per, "  Never  mind !  "  and  she  took  out  her  handker- 
chief to  wipe  her  eyes. 

Now,  all  this  while  my  young  lady  took  no  heed,  and 
I  felt  almost  sure  she  must  have  noticed  us ;  but  she 
did  not  turn  to  the  large-eyed  maiden,  and  /occupied 
myself  with  both.  That  night  again  Davy  joined  me, 
and  I  only  managed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  muslin 
bonneted,  holding  her  bonbons  still  in  one  dirty  glove, 
and  with  the  other  taking  the  hand  of  a  huge,  high- 
shouldered  man,  going  out  with  the  crowd. 

Oh,  Davy  was  too  deep  for  me,  and  delicate  as 
deep  !  The  next  night  of  our  meeting  my  number  was 
moved  to  the  other  side  of  my  serene  neighbor,  who  at 
present  divided  me  from  the  hazel  eyes  and  the  ringlets. 
It  never  occurred  to  me  that  he  had  done  it ;  I  thought 
it  to  be  a  mistake,  and  fully  intended,  like  a  curious 
manikin,  to  go  back  another  time  to  my  old  quarters. 
I  could  not  help  looking  at  the  little  one  to  see  whether 
I  was  watched.  But  no  ;  with  a  coquetry  I  was  too  young 
to  appreciate,  and  she  ought  to  have  been  too  young  to 
exercise,  she  sang  with  all  her  might,  never  once  turn- 
ing her  eyes  towards  me.  I  found  at  length  the  fascina- 
tions of  our  choral  force  too  strong  not  to  submerge  her 
slight  individuality,  and  soon  I  forgot  she  was  there,  — 
though  I  never  forgot  that  serene  voice  breathing  by  my 
side  faint  prophecies  I  could  not  render  to  myself  in 
any  form,  except  that  they  had  to  do  with  myself,  and 
with  music  alike  my  very  own.  I  do  not  think  any 
musical  taste  was  ever  fed  and  fostered  early  in  an  atmos- 


A.Y  ANTHEM.  83 

phere  so  pure  as  mine ;  for  Lenhart  Davy's  class,  when 
fully  organized  and  entirely  submitted  to  him,  seemed 
invested  with  his  own  double  peculiarity,  —  subdued, 
yet  strong.  We  were  initiated  this  evening  into  an  an- 
cient anthem,  whose  effect,  when  it  was  permitted  to  us 
to  interpret,  was  such  that  I  could  not  repress  my  satis- 
faction, and  I  said  aloud,  though  I  did  not  confront  my 
companion,  "  That  is  something  hke  ! "  My  serene 
contralto  answered,  strangely  to  my  anticipations,  and 
with  the  superior  womanliness  I  have  ascribed  to  her, 
"Is  it  not  glorious?" 

It  was  an  anthem  in  the  severe  style,  that  tells  so 
powerfully  in  four-voiced  harmony ;  and  the  parts  were 
copied  upon  gigantic  tablets  in  front,  against  the  wall 
that  was  Davy's  background. 

"  I  cannot  see,"  said  the  other  little  creature,  pulling 
the  contralto's  black-silk  gown. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,"  replied  the  other,  "  but  I  believe 
that  you  can  see,  Laura,  as  well  as  I  can ;  you  mean  you 
will  not  trouble  yourself,  or  that  you  are  idle  to-night." 

"  And  what  if  I  do  ?  I  hate  those  horrid  hymn  sort 
of  tunes ;  they  will  not  be  of  any  use  to  me." 

"  Silence  ! "  uttered  the  voice  of  Lenhart  Davy. 
There  was  seldom  occasion  for  him  to  say  so,  but 
just  now  there  had  been  a  pause  before  we  repeated 
the  first  movement  of  the  anthem. 

He  told  me  he  had  a  little  leisure  that  evening,  and 
would  take  me  home.  I  was  enchanted,  and  fully 
meant  to  ask  him  to  come  in  with  me ;  but  I  actually 
forgot  it  until  after  he  had  turned  away.  Margareth  re- 
proved me  very  seriously ;  "  Your  sisters  would  have 
asked  him  in.  Master  Charles,  to  supper."  But  the  fact 
was,  I  had  been  occupied  with  my  own  world  too  much. 
I  had  said  to  him  directly  we  were  in  the  street,  "  Dear 


84  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

Mr.  Davy,  who  are  those  two  girls  whose  seats  are  the 
nearest  to  mine?" 

"  They  belong  to  the  class  like  yourself,  as  you  per- 
ceive, but  they  are  not  persons  you  would  be  likely  to 
meet  anywhere  else." 

"  Why  not,  sir  ?  I  should  like  to  be  friends  with  all 
the  singers." 

Davy  smiled.  "So  you  may  be,  in  singing,  and,  I 
hope,  will  be ;  but  they  are  not  all  companions  for  you 
out  of  the  class.     You  know  that  very  well." 

*'  I  suppose,  sir,  you  mean  that  some  are  poorer  than 
we  are,  some  not  so  well  brought  up,  some  too  old,  and 
all  that?" 

*'  I  did,  certainly ;  but  not  only  so.  You  had  better 
not  make  too  many  friends  at  your  time  of  life,  —  rather 
too  few  than  too  many.  Ask  your  mother  if  I  am  not 
correct.  You  see,  she  has  a  right  to  expect  that  you 
should  love  home  best  at  present." 

"  I  always  should  love  home  best,"  I  answered  quickly ; 
and  I  remember  well  how  Davy  sighed. 

"You  mean  what  even  every  boy  must  feel,  that 
you  should  like  to  make  a  home  for  yourself;  but  the 
reward  is  after  the  race,  —  the  victory  at  the  end  of  the 
struggle." 

It  appeared  to  me  very  readily  that  he  here  addressed 
something  in  his  own  soul ;  for  his  voice  had  fallen.  I 
urged,  "  I  know  it,  sir ;  but  do  tell  me  the  names  of 
those  two  girls,  —  I  won't  let  them  know  you  told 
me." 

He  laughed  long  and  heartily.  "  Oh  !  yes,  willingly  ; 
you  would  soon  have  heard  their  names,  though.  The 
little  one  is  Laura  Lemark,  the  child  of  a  person  who 
has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  theatres  in  this  town, 
and  she  is  training  for  a  dancer,  besides  being  already  a 


CLARA   BENETTE.  85 

singer  in  the  chorus  at  a  certain  theatre.  Your  mother 
would  not  like  you  to  visit  her,  you  may  be  sure ;  and 
therefore  you  should  not  try  to  know  her.  I  placed  you 
near  her  because  she  is  the  most  knowing  of  all  my 
pupils,  except  Miss  Benette,^  the  young  person  who 
sat  next  you  this  evening." 

"  With  the  lovely  voice  ?  Oh  !  I  should  never  know 
her  if  I  wished  it." 

"  You  need  not  wish  it ;  but  even  if  you  did,  she 
would  never  become  troublesome  in  any  respect.  She 
is  too  calm,  too  modest." 

"  And  pray,  tell  me,  sir,  is  she  to  be  a  dancer  too  ?  " 

"  No,  oh,  no  I  She  will  decidedly  become  one  of  the 
finest  singers  in  England,  but  I  beheve  she  will  not 
go  upon  the  stage." 

"  You  call  the  theatre  the  stage,  sir,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  this  instance." 

"  But  why  won't  she  go  upon  the  stage  ?  Cannot  she 
act?" 

"  She  does  not  think  she  is  called  to  it  by  any  special 
gift." 

"  Did  she  say  those  words,  sir?  " 

*'  Those  very  words." 

"  I  thought  she  would  just  say  them,  sir.  Does  she 
know  you  very  well?  " 

"She  is  my  own  pupil." 

1  Clara  Benette,  who  plays  such  an  important  part  in  this 
romance,  has  been  generally  accepted  as  a  sketch  of  Jenny  Lind. 
The  resemblances  are  not  very  close,  however.  At  the  time  of  the 
opening  of  the  story  she  had  not  made  her  debnt,  and  she  did  not 
appear  in  England  until  1847,  the  year  of  Mendelssohn's  death. 
It  is  true,  however,  that  she  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  com- 
poser and  followed  his  advice  explicitly,  and  that  he  was  largely 
instrumental  in  introducing  her  to  the  English  public.  She  also 
founded  a  musical  scholarship  in  London  in  his  memory. 


86  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

*'  Oh  !  out  of  the  class,  sir,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  I  teach  her  in  my  house." 

"  Sir,  I  wish  you  taught  me  in  your  house." 

"  I  should  say,  too,  that  I  wished  it,"  answered  Davy, 
sweetly ;  "  but  you  have  a  sister  to  teach  you  at  home, 
and  Clara  Benette  has  no  one."' 

"  I  should  like  to  have  no  one  —  to  teach  me,  I  mean, 
—  if  you  would  teach  me.  If  my  mother  said  yes, 
would  you,  sir?  " 

"  For  a  Httle  while  I  would  with  pleasure." 

"  Why  not  long,  sir  ?  I  mean,  why  only  for  a  little 
while?" 

"Because  there  are  others  of  whom  you  ought  to 
learn,  and  will  learn,  I  am  persuaded,"  he  added,  al- 
most dreamingly,  as  he  turned  me  to  the  moonlight, 
now  overspread  about  us,  and  surveyed  me  seriously. 
"  The  little  violin-face,  —  you  know,  Charles,  I  cannot 
be  mistaken  in  those  hnes." 

"  I  would  rather  sing,  sir." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  because  you  have  not  tried  anything 
else." 

"  But,  sir,  you  sing." 

"  I  suppose  that  I  must  say,  as  Miss  Benette  does,  *  I 
have  a  special  gift '  that  way,"  replied  Davy,  laughing. 

"  You  have  a  special  gift  all  the  ways,  I  think,  sir,"  I 
cried  as  I  ran  into  our  house.  I  told  Millicent  all  he 
had  said,  except  that  Laura  was  to  be  a  dancer ;  and  yet 
I  cannot  tell  why  I  left  this  out,  for  there  was  that  about 
her  fairly  repelling  me,  and  at  the  same  time  I  felt  as  if 
exposed  to  some  power  through  her,  and  could  not 
restrain  myself  from  a  desire  to  see  her  again.  Millicent 
told  my  mother  all  that  I  had  said  to  her  the  next  morn- 
ing at  breakfast.  My  mother,  who  had  as  much  worldli- 
ness  as  any  of  us,  and  that  was  just  none,  was  mightily 


A/y  MOTHER  HESITATES.  8/ 

amused  at  my  new  interests.  She  could  not  make  up 
her  mind  about  the  private  lessons  yet;  she  thought 
me  too  young,  and  that  I  had  plenty  of  time  before  me, 
—  at  present  the  class  was  sufficient  excitement,  and 
gave  me  enough  to  do.  Clo  quite  coincided  here  ;  she, 
if  anything,  thought  it  rather  too  much  already,  though 
a  very  good  thing  indeed. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NEXT  time  we  met  we  began  the  anthem  after  our 
first  exercise.  Laura  ^  —  by  this  time  she  was  al- 
ways Laura  in  my  own  world  —  nodded  at  me.  She 
had  on  a  green  silk  frock  to-night ;  and  surely  no  color 
could  have  so  enhanced  the  clarified  brightness  of  her 
strange  eyes.  Davy  was  pleased  with  us,  but  not  with 
our  enunciation  of  certain  syllables.  He  requested  us 
as  a  favor  to  practise  between  that  meeting  and  the 
next.  There  were  a  great  many  assents,  and  Laura  was 
very  open  in  her  ^'  yes."  Miss  Benette  whispered  to 
herself,  "  Of  course."  And  I,  unable  to  resist  the 
opportunity,  whispered  to  her,  "  Does  he  mean  that 
we  are  to  practise  alone,  or  one  by  one?" 

"  Mr.  Davy  will  lend  us  our  parts,  and  I  daresay  will 
copy  them  on  purpose,'"  she  replied.  "  It  will  be  better 
to  practise  alone,  or  at  least  one  or  two  together,  than  a 
great  many,  or  even  a  few.  We  can  more  easily  detect 
our  faults." 

"  How  well  she  speaks  !  "  I  thought,  —  '^  quite  as  pret- 
tily as  Millicent ;  her  accent  is  very  good,  I  am  sure  ;  " 
and  I  again  addressed  her.     "  I  do  not  think  you  have 

1  The  idea  that  Laura  Lemark  was  intended  as  a  sketch  of 
Taglioni,  the  danseuse,  is  altogether  fanciful ;  except  the  fact 
that  Taglioni  in  her  old  age  taught  deportment  to  ladies  who 
desired  to  be  presented  at  the  English  court,  and  that  Laura  did 
the  same  after  she  had  retired,  there  is  no  resemblance  between 
them. 


/  MAKE  ADVANCES.  89 

any  faults  at  all,  —  your  voice  seems  able  to  do  any- 
thing." 

"I  do  nothing  at  all  with  it,  it  seems  to  me,  and  that 
I  have  very  Uttle  voice  at  present.  I  think  we  had  bet- 
ter not  talk,  because  it  seems  so  careless." 

"  Talk  to  me,"  broke  in  Laura  from  beyond  Miss 
Benette  ;  but  I  would  not,  —  I  steadily  looked  in  front, 
full  of  a  new  plan  of  mine.  I  must  explain  that  we 
proceeded  slowly,  because  Davy's  instructions  were 
complete,  —  perhaps  too  ideal  for  the  majority  ;  but  for 
some  and  for  me  there  was  an  ineffaceable  conviction 
in  every  novel  utterance. 

Just  before  we  separated,  I  ventured  to  make  my  re- 
quest. "  Miss  Benette  !  "  I  said,  and  she  almost  stared, 
quite  started  to  find  I  knew  her  name,  "  Mr.  Davy  told 
me  who  you  were,  —  will  you  let  me  come  and  practise 
with  you  ?  He  will  tell  you  my  name  if  you  must  know 
it,  but  I  should  so  like  to  sing  with  you,  —  I  do  so  ad- 
mire your  voice."  I  spoke  with  the  most  perfect  inno- 
cence, at  the  same  time  quite  madly  wishing  to  know 
her ;  I  did  not  mean  to  be  overheard,  but  on  the  instant 
Laura  looked  over. 

"  You  don't  ask  meP 

"  Because  I  don't  care  about  your  voice,"  I  answered, 
bluntly.  She  again  gazed  at  me  brightly,  her  eyes 
swimming. 

"  Oh,  hush  !  "  whispered  ^vliss  Benette  ;  "  you  have 
hurt  her,  poor  httle  thing." 

"  How  very  good  you  are  !  "  I  returned,  scarcely 
knowing  what  to  say.      '•  I  always  speak  the  truth." 

'•'  Yes,  I  should  think  so  ;  but  it  is  not  good  taste  to 
dislike  Laura's  voice,  for  it  is  very  prett)-'." 

"Come,  Miss  Benette,  do  make  haste  and  tell  me 
whether  you  will  let  me  sing  with  you  to-morrow." 


90  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  I  do  not  mind  if  your  friends  will  not  object." 

"  Tell  me  where  you  live,  then." 

"  In  St.  Anthony's  Lane,  just  by  the  new  foundation. 
There  is  a  tree  in  front,  but  no  garden.  You  must  not 
come,  if  you  please,  until  after  one  o'clock,  because  I 
have  to  practise  for  my  other  lessons." 

"  Good-night." 

She  ran  off,  having  bowed  a  little  courtesy.  Laura 
had  left  while  we  were  talking. 

*'Now,"  thought  I,  "I  shall  have  it  all  out,  who  she 
is  and  what  she  does,  and  I  will  make  MiHicent  go  to 
see  her."     Davy  here  joined  me. 

"  So  you  have  made  friends  with  Miss  Benette." 

"  Yes,  sir  j  "  but  I  did  not  tell  him  I  was  going  to 
practise  with  her,  for  fear  anything  should  prevent 
my  going. 

"  She  is  an  excellent  young  person,  and  will  be  a  true 
artist.  Nevertheless,  remember  my  injunction,  —  rather 
too  few  friends  than  too  many." 

"  I  mean  to  keep  friends  with  her,  and  to  make  my 
sister  friends  with  her." 

"  Your  sister  does  not  want  friends,  I  should  think." 

"  Oh,  sir,  did  you  ever  find  out  who  the  conductor 
was?" 

"  Nobody  knows.  It  is  very  singular,"  and  he  raised 
his  voice,  "  that  he  has  never  been  heard  of  since,  and 
had  not  been  seen  before  by  anybody  present,  though 
so  many  foreign  professors  were  in  the  hall.  In  London 
they  persist  it  was  Milans-Andre',  though  Andre  has 
himself  contradicted  the  assertion." 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  Milans-Andre." 

"You  will  some  day,  no  doubt." 

"Do  you  think  I  shall?" 

"  I  feel  in  myself  quite  sure.    Now,  good-night  to  you." 


I   VISIT  MISS  BENETTE.  9 1 

"  Do  come  in,  sir,  and  have  some  supper,  please." 

But  Davy  was  off  in  the  moonlight  before  the  door 
could  be  opened  into  our  house. 

When  I  told  Millicent  I  was  going  to  practise  with 
one  of  the  class,  she  thought  fit  to  tell  my  mother.  My 
mother  made  various  inquiries ;  but  I  satisfied  her  by 
assuring  her  it  was  one  of  Davy's  own  pupils,  and  his 
favorite,  and  I  contrived  not  to  be  asked  whether  it 
was  a  young  lady,  —  I  let  them  think  just  at  that  time  it 
was  a  young  gentleman  about  my  own  standing.  The 
only  direct  injunction  laid  upon  me  was  that  I  should  be 
home  for  tea  at  five  o'clock,  —  and  as  I  did  not  leave 
our  house  until  after  our  one  o'clock  dinner,  this  did  not 
give  me  very  much  time  ;  but  I  ran  the  whole  way. 

I  forgot  to  mention  that  Davy  had  lent  each  of  us 
our  parts  beautifully  copied,  —  at  least  he  had  lent  them 
to  all  who  engaged  to  practise,  and  I  was  one.  I  had 
rolled  it  up  very  neatly. 

I  soon  found  the  house,  but  I  was  certainly  astonished 
when  I  did  find  it.  I  could  not  believe  such  a  creature 
as  Miss  Benette  could  remain,  so  bright,  buried  dowm 
there.  It  was  the  last  house  of  a  very  dull  row,  all  let 
out  in  lodgings,  —  the  meanest  in  the  town  except  the 
very  poor. 

It  was  no  absurd  notion  of  relative  inferiority  with 
which  I  surveyed  it,  I  was  pained  at  the  positive  fact 
that  the  person  to  whom  I  had  taken  such  a  fancy  should 
be  obliged  to  remain  where  I  felt  as  if  I  should  never  be 
able  to  breathe.  I  lingered  but  a  moment  though,  and 
then  I  touched  a  little  heavy,  distorted  knocker  that 
hung  nearly  at  the  bottom  of  the  door,  —  how  unlike,  I 
thought,  to  Lenhart  Davy's  tiny  castle  under  lock  and  key ! 
Presently  the  door  was  opened  by  a  person,  the  like  of 
whom  I  had  never  seen  in  all  my  small  experience,  — 


92  CHARLES  AC/CHESTER. 

a  universal  servant,  required  to  be  ubiquitous  ;  let  this 
description  suffice.  I  asked  for  Miss  Benette.  ''  The 
first  door  to  the  right,  upstairs,"  was  the  reply;  and 
passing  along  a  dark  entry,  I  began  to  ascend  them, 
steep  and  carpetless.  I  seemed,  however,  to  revive 
when  I  perceived  how  lately  the  wooden  steps  had  been 
washed  ;  there  was  not  a  foot-mark  all  the  way  up  to  the 
top,  and  they  smelt  of  soap  and  water. 

I  found  several  doors  to  embarrass  me  on  the  land- 
ing, all  painted  black ;  but  I  heard  tones  in  one  direc- 
tion that  decided  me  to  knock.  A  voice  as  soft  as 
Millicent's  responded,  "  Come  in." 

Oh,  how  strange  I  felt  when  I  entered  !  to  the  full 
as  strange  as  when  I  first  saw  Davy's  sanctum.  No 
less  a  sanctum  this,  I  remember  thinking,  to  the  eyes 
that  behold  the  pure  in  heart.  It  was  so  exquisitely 
tidy,  I  felt  at  once  that  my  selfish  sensibiUties  had 
nothing  to  fear.  The  room  was  indeed  small,  but  no 
book  walls  darkened  gloriously  the  daylight ;  the  fire- 
place was  hideous,  the  carpet  coarse  and  glaring,  the 
paper  was  crude  green,  —  I  hate  crude  greens  more 
than  yellow  blues.  —  and  the  chairs  were  rush-bottomed, 
every  one.  But  she  for  whom  I  came  was  seated  at  the 
window,  singing ;  she  held  some  piece  of  work  in  her 
hand,  which  she  laid  upon  the  table  when  I  entered.  Par- 
don my  reverting  to  the  table  ;  I  could  not  keep  my  eyes 
from  it.  It  was  covered  with  specimens  of  work,  —  such 
work  as  I  had  never  seen,  as  I  shall  never  see  again, 
though  all  my  sisters  could  embroider,  could  stitch, 
could  sew  with  the  very  best.  She  did  not  like  me  to 
look  at  it  though,  I  thought,  for  she  drew  me  to  the  win- 
dow by  showing  me  a  chair  she  had  set  for  me  close  be- 
side her  own.  The  only  luxury  amidst  the  fiirniture  was 
a  mahogany  music-stand,  which  was  placed  before  our 


THE   ANTHEM.  93 

two  seats.  One  part  lay  upon  the  stand,  but  it  was  not 
in  Lenhart  Davy's  autography. 

"Did  you  copy  that  part  yourself,  Miss  Benette?" 
said  I,  unable  to  restrain  the  question. 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  it  too  much  that  Mr.  Davy  should 
copy  all  the  parts  himself  for  us." 

"Does  he?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  did  you  not  know  it  ?  But  we  must  not 
talk,  we  must  work.     Let  us  be  very  careful." 

"  You  show  me  how;  please  to  sing  it  once  alone." 

She  struck  the  tuning-fork  upon  the  desk,  and  without 
the  slightest  hesitation,  flush,  or  effort,  she  began.  One 
would  not  have  deemed  it  an  incomplete  fragment  of 
score ;  it  resounded  in  my  ver}'  brain  hke  perfect  har- 
mony, so  strangely  did  my  own  ear  infer  the  intermedi- 
ate sounds. 

"Oh,  how  lovely  I  how  exquisite  it  must  be  to  feel 
you  can  do  so  much  I  "  I  exclaimed,  as  her  unfaltering 
accent  thrilled  the  last  amen. 

"  I  seem  never  to  have  done  anything,  as  I  told  you 
before ;  it  is  necessary  to  do  so  much.  Now  sing  it 
alone  once  all  through,  and  I  will  correct  you  as  Mr. 
Davy  corrects  me." 

I  com^plied  instantly,  feeling  her  very  presence  would 
be  instruction,  forgetting,  or  not  conscious,  how  young 
she  was.  She  corrected  me  a  great  deal,  though  with 
the  utmost  simplicity.  I  was  astonished  at  the  depth  of 
her  remarks,  though  too  ignorant  to  conceive  that  they 
broke  as  mere  ripples  from  the  soundless  deeps  of  genius. 
Then  we  sang  together,  and  she  wandered  into  the 
soprano  part.  I  was  transported  ;  I  was  eager  to  retain 
her  good  opinion,  and  took  immense  pains.  But  it 
never  struck  me  all  the  time  that  it  was  strange  she 
should  be  alone,  —  apparently  alone,  I  mean.    I  was  too 


94  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

purely  happy  in  her  society.  She  sat  as  serenely  as  at 
the  class,  and  criticised  as  severely  as  our  master. 

"  It  is  getting  late/'  she  said  at  last,  "  and  I  think  you 
had  better  go.  Besides,  I  must  go  on  with  my  work.  If 
you  are  so  kind  as  to  come  and  practise  with  me  again, 
I  must  work  while  I  sing,  as  I  do  when  I  am  alone." 

"  Oh,  why  did  you  not  to-day? " 

"  I  thought  it  would  not  be  polite  the  first  time,"  an- 
swered she,  as  gravely  as  a  judge ;  and  I  never  felt  so 
delighted  with  anything  in  all  my  life.  I  looked  up  at 
her  eyes,  but  the  lashes  were  so  long  I  could  not  see 
them,  for  she  was  looking  down. 

"  Will  you  think  me  rude  if  I  ask  to  look  at  your 
work?" 

"  You  may  look  at  what  I  am  going  to  send  to  the 
shop." 

"Oh,  what  shop?" 

She  got  out  of  her  chair  and  moved  to  the  table. 
There  was  no  smile  upon  her  baby-mouth.  She  pointed 
to  the  articles  I  had  noticed  but  had  not  dared  to 
examine.  They  were,  indeed,  sights  to  see,  one  and 
all.  Such  delicate  frock-bodies  and  sprigged  caps  for 
infants;  such  toilet-cushions  rich  with  patterns,  like 
ingrained  pearls ;  such  rolls  of  lace,  with  running  gos- 
samer leaves,  or  edges  fine  as  the  pinked  carnations 
in  Davy's  garden.  There  were  also  collars  with  broad 
white  leaves  and  peeping  buds,  or  wreathing  embroidery 
like  sea-weed,  or  blanched  moss,  or  magnified  snow,  or 
whatever  you  can  think  of  as  most  unlike  work.  Then 
there  was  a  central  basket,  lined  with  white  satin,  in 
which  lay  six  cambric  handkerchiefs,  with  all  the  folded 
comers  outwards,  each  corner  of  which  shone  as  if  dead- 
silvered  with  the  exquisitely  wrought  crest  and  motto  of 
an  ancient  coroneted  family. 


EIN  MAERCHEN.  95 

"  Oh,  I  never  did  see  anything  like  them  ! "  was  all 
I  could  get  out,  after  peering  into  everything  till  the  ex- 
celling whiteness  pained  my  sight.  "  Do  tell  me  where 
you  send  them?  " 

"  I  used  to  send  them  to  Madame  Varneckel's,  in 
High  Street ;  but  she  cheated  me,  and  I  send  them  now 
to  the  Quaker's,  in  Albemarle  Square." 

"You  sell  them,  then?" 

"  Yes,  of  course  ;  I  should  not  work  else.  I  do  not 
love  it." 

"  They  ought  to  give  you  a  hundred  guineas  for  those." 

*'  I  have  a  hundred  guineas  already." 

"  You  have ! "  I  quite  startled  her  by  the  start  I 
gave.  I  very  nearly  said,  "Then  why  do  you  live  up 
here?"  but  I  felt,  in  time,  that  it  would  be  rude. 

"  Oh !  I  must  get  four  hundred  more,  and  that  will 
take  me  two  years,  or  perhaps  three,  unless  my  voice 
comes  out  like  a  flower."  Here  her  baby-mouth  burst 
into  a  smile  most  radiant,  —  a  rose  of  light ! 

"  Oh,  Miss  Benette,  everything  you  say  is  like  one  of 
the  German  stories,  —  a  Mdrcheti}  you  know." 

"Oh,  do  you  talk  German?  I  love  it.  I  always 
spoke  it  till  I  came  to  this  city." 

"  What  a  pity  you  came  ! — at  least,  I  should  have  been 
very  sorry  if  you  had  not  come ;  but  I  mean,  I  should 
have  thought  you  would  like  Germany  best." 

"  So  I  should,  but  I  could  not  help  coming ;  I  was  a 
baby  when  I  came.  Mr.  Davy  brought  me  over  in  his 
arms,  and  he  was  just  as  old  then  as  I  am  now." 

"  How  very  odd  !  Mr.  Davy  never  told  me  he  had 
brought  you  here." 

"  Oh,  no  !  he  would  not  tell  you  all  the  good  things 
he  has  done." 

1  A  tale,  or  romance. 


g6  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  He  has  done  me  good,  —  quite  as  much  good  as 
he  can  have  done  to  you  ;  but  I  should  so  like  to  hear 
all  about  it." 

' '  You  must  not  stay,  —  you  shall  go,"  she  answered, 
with  her  grave  sweetness  of  voice  and  manner ;  "  and  if 
you  are  not  in  time  to-day,  we  shall  never  practise  again. 
I  shall  be  very  sorry,  for  I  like  to  sing  with  you." 

I  was  not  in  time,  and  I  got  the  nearest  thing  to 
a  scolding  from  my  mother,  and  a  long  reproof  from 
Clo.  She  questioned  me  as  to  where  I  had  been, 
and  I  was  obliged  to  answer.  The  locality  did  not  sat- 
isfy her ;  she  said  it  was  a  low  neighborhood,  and  one 
in  which  I  might  catch  all  sorts  of  diseases.  I  persisted 
that  it  was  as  high  and  dry  as  we  were,  and  possessed 
an  advantage  over  us  in  that  it  had  better  air,  being, 
as  it  was,  all  but  out  in  the  fields.  My  mother  was 
rather  puzzled  about  the  whole  matter,  but  she  declared 
her  confidence  in  me,  and  I  was  contented,  as  she  ever 
contents  me.  I  was  very  grateful  to  her,  and  assured 
them  all  how  superior  was  Miss  Benette  to  all  the  mem- 
bers of  the  class.  I  also  supplicated  Millicent  to  ac- 
company me  the  next  time  I  should  be  allowed  to  go, 
that  she  might  see  the  beautiful  work. 

'^I  cannot  go,  my  dear  Charles."  she  returned. 
*'  If  this  young  lady  be  what  you  yourself  make  her  out 
to  be,  it  would  be  taking  a  great  liberty ;  and  besides, 
she  could  not  want  me,  —  I  do  not  sing  in  the  class." 

But  she  looked  very  much  as  if  she  wished  she  did. 

"  I  just  wish  you  would  ask  Mr.  Davy  about  her, 
that's  all." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

T"!  J'HEN  I  went  to  the  class  next  time  I  was  very 
VV  eager  to  catch  Mr.  Davy,  that  I  might  explain 
to  him  where  I  had  been,  for  I  did  not  like  acting  with- 
out his  cognizance.  However,  he  was  already  down 
below  when  I  arrived.  My  fair  companions  were  both 
in  their  places,  but,  to  my  astonishment.  Miss  Benette 
took  no  notice  of  me.  Her  sweet  face  was  as  grave  as 
it  was  before  I  caught  from  under  those  long  lashes  the 
azure  light  upon  my  own  for  the  first  time.  Certain  that 
she  did  not  mean  to  offend  me,  I  got  on  very  well  though, 
and  Davy  was  very  much  pleased  with  our  success. 

Little  Laura  looked  very  pale  ;  her  hair  was  out  of  its 
curl,  and  altogether  she  had  an  appearance  as  if  she  had 
been  dragged  through  a  river,  lost  and  forlorn,  and 
scarcely  sensible.  She  sang  languidly,  but  Miss  Benette's 
clinging  tones  would  not  suffer  me  to  be  aware  of  any 
except  hers  and  my  own. 

Davy  taught  us  something  about  Gregorian  chants, 
and  gave  us  a  few  to  practise,  besides  a  new  but  ex- 
tremely simple  service  of  his  own.  ^'  He  wrote  that  for 
us,  I  suppose,"  I  ventured  ;  and  Clara  nodded  seriously, 
but  made  no  assent  in  words.  Afterwards  she  seemed 
to  remember  me  again  as  her  ally ;  for  as  Davy  wished 
us  his  adieu  in  his  w^onted  free  "  Good-night !  "  she 
spoke  to  me  of  her  own  accord. 

"  I  think  it  was  all  the  better  that  we  practised." 

"  Oh,  was  it  not  ?     Suppose  we  practise  again." 

VOL.  I.  —  7 


98  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  I  should  like  it,  if  you  will  come  at  the  same  time, 
and  not  stay  longer ;  and  Laura  can  come  too,  can 
she  not?" 

I  did  not  exactly  like  this  idea,  but  I  could  not  con- 
tradict the  calm,  mellow  voice. 

''  Oh,  if  she  will  practise." 

"Of  course  she  will  practise  if  she  comes  on 
purpose." 

"  I  don't  care  about  coming  ! "  exclaimed  the  child, 
in  a  low,  fretful  voice.    "  I  know  I  sha'n't  get  out,  either." 

"Yes,  you  shall;  I  will  coax  your  papa.  Look, 
Laura  !    there   he  is,  waiting  for  you." 

The  child  ran  off  instantly,  with  an  air  of  fear  over  all 
her  fatigue,  and  I  felt  sure  she  was  not  treated  like  a 
child ;  but  I  said  nothing  about  it  then. 

"  Sir,"  said  I  to  Mr.  Davy,  "  pray  walk  a  little  way, 
for  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  My  mother  particu- 
larly requests  that  you  will  go  to  our  house  to  sup  with 
us  this  evening." 

"  I  will  accept  her  kindness  with  the  greatest  pleasure, 
as  I  happen  to  be  less  engaged  than  usual." 

Davy  never  bent  his  duty  to  his  pleasure,  —  rather 
the  reverse. 

"  I  went  to  practise  with  Miss  Benette  the  day  before 
yesterday." 

"So  she  told  me." 

"She  told  you  herself?" 

"  Yes,  when  she  came  to  my  house  for  her  lesson  last 
afternoon.  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it,  because  such 
singing  as  hers  will  improve  yours.  But  I  should  hke  to 
tell  your  mother  how  she  is  connected  with  me." 

"  How  was  it,  sir?" 

"  Oh !  I  shall  make  a  long  stor>^  for  her ;  but  enough 
for  you  that  her  father  was  very  good  to  me  when  I  was 


LENHA  RT  DA  VY'S  HIS  TOR  Y.  99 

an  orphan  boy  and  begged  my  way  tlirough  Germany. 
He  taught  me  all  that  I  now  teach  you  ;  and  when  he 
died,  he  asked  me  to  take  care  of  his  baby  and  his  les- 
sons.   She  was  only  born  that  he  might  see  her,  and  die." 

"  Oh,  sir,  how  strange  !  Poor  man  !  he  must  have 
been  ver}'  sorry." 

•'  He  was  not  sorry  to  go,  for  he  loved  his  wife,  and 
she  went  first." 

"Oh,  that  was  IVIiss  Benette's  mamma?  " 

"  Yes,  her  lovely  mamma." 

"  Of  course  she  was  lovely.  If  you  please,  sir,  tell 
me  about  her  too."  But  Davy  resen'ed  his  tale  until  we 
were  at  home. 

My  mother  fully  expected  him,  it  was  evident ;  for 
upon  the  table,  besides  the  plain  but  perfectly  ordered 
meal  we  always  enjoyed  at  about  nine  o'clock,  stood  the 
supernumerary  illustrations  —  in  honor  of  a  guest  —  of 
boiled  custards,  puff  pastr}',  and  our  choicest  preser\-es. 
My  mother,  too,  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  a  species  of 
state,  having  her  hands  void  of  occupation  and  her 
pocket-handkerchief  outspread.  MiUicent  and  Lydia 
wore  their  dahlia-colored  poplin  frocks,  —  quite  a  Sun- 
day costume,  —  and  Clo  revealed  herself  in  purple  silk, 
singularly  adapted  for  evening  wear,  as  it  looked  black 
by  candle-light ! 

I  never  sat  up  to  supper  except  on  very  select  occa- 
sions. I  knew  this  would  be  one,  without  being  told  so, 
and  secured  the  next  chair  to  my  darling  friend's. 

I  would  that  I  could  recall,  in  his  own  expressive  lan- 
guage, his  exact  relation  of  his  own  histor}'  as  told  to  us 
that  night.  It  struck  us  that  he  should  so  earnestly 
acquaint  us  with  ever}'  incident,  —  at  least,  it  surprised  us 
then,  but  his  after  connection  \^ith  ourselves  explained 
it  in  that  future. 


lOO  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

No  fiction  could  be  more  fraught  with  fascinating  per- 
sonality than  his  actual  life.  I  pass  over  his  birth  in 
England  (and  in  London) ,  in  a  dark  room  over  a  dull 
book-shop,  in  his  father's  house.  That  father,  from  pure 
breeding  and  constitutional  exclusiveness,  had  avoided 
all  intercourse  with  his  class,  and  conserved  his  social 
caste  by  his  marriage  only.  I  linger  not  upon  his  re- 
membrance of  his  mother,  Sybilla  Lenhart,  —  herself  a 
Jewess,  with  the  most  exquisite  musical  abiUty,  —  nor 
upon  her  death  in  her  only  son's  tenth  year. 

His  father's  pining  melancholy  meantime  deepened 
into  an  abstraction  of  misery  on  her  loss.  The  world 
and  its  claims  lost  their  hold,  and  he  died  insolvent  when 
Lenhart  was  scarcely  twelve. 

Then  came  his  relation  of  romantic  wanderings  in 
Southern  France  and  Germany,  like  a  troubadour,  or 
minnesinger,  with  guitar  and  song ;  of  his  accidental 
friendships  and  fancy  fraternities,  till  he  became  choir- 
alto  at  a  Lutheran  church  in  the  heart  of  the  Eichen- 
Land.  Then  came  the  story  of  his  attachment  to  the 
young,  sage  organist  of  that  very  church,  who,  in  a  fairy- 
like adventure,  had  married  a  count's  youngest  daughter, 
and  never  dared  to  disclose  his  alliance ;  of  her  secret 
existence  with  him  in  the  topmost  room  of  an  old  house, 
where  she  never  dared  to  look  out  of  the  window  to  the 
street  for  fear  she  should  be  discovered  and  carried  back, 
—  the  etiquette  requisite  to  cover  such  an  abduction 
being  quite  alien  from  my  comprehension,  by  the  way, 
but  so  Davy  assured  us  she  found  it  necessary  to  abide ; 
of  their  one  beautiful  infant  born  in  the  old  house,  and 
the  curious  saintly  carving  about  its  wooden  cradle ;  of 
the  young  mother,  too  hastily  weaned  from  luxurious 
calm  to  the  struggling  dream  of  poverty,  or  at  least  un- 
certain thrift ;  of  her  fading,  falling  into  a  stealthy  sick- 


CLARA   BE  ALETTE'S  STORY.  1 01 

ness,  and  of  the  night  she  lay  (a  Sunday  night)  and 
heard  the  organ  strains  swell  up  and  melt  into  the  moon- 
light from  her  husband's  hand ;  of  Lenhart  Davy's 
presence  with  her  alone  that  night,  unknowing,  until  the 
music-peal  was  over,  that  her  soul  had  passed  to  heaven, 
as  it  were,  in  that  cloud  of  music. 

But  I  must  just  observe  that  Davy  made  as  light  as 
possible  of  his  own  pure  and  characteristic  decision, 
developed  even  in  boyhood.  He  passed  over,  almost 
without  comment,  the  more  than  elder  brotherly  care 
he  must  have  bestowed  on  the  beautiful  infant,  and 
dwelt,  as  if  to  divert  us  from  that  point,  upon  the  woful 
cares  that  had  pressed  upon  his  poor  friend,  —  upon  his 
own  trouble  when  the  young  organist  himself,  displaced 
by  weakness  from  his  position,  made  his  own  end,  even 
as  Lenhart's  father,  an  end  of  sorrow  and  of  love. 

Davy,  indeed,  merely  mentioned  that  he  had  brought 
little  Clara  to  England  himself,  and  left  her  in  London 
with  his  own  mother's  sister,  whose  house  he  always 
reckoned  his  asylum,  if  not  his  home.  And  then  he 
told  us  of  his  promise  to  Clara's  father  that  she  should 
be  brought  up  musically,  and  that  no  one  should  edu- 
cate her  until  she  should  be  capacitated  to  choose  her 
own  masters,  except  Davy,  to  whom  her  father  had  im- 
parted a  favorite  system  of  his  own. 

I  remember  his  saying,  in  conclusion,  to  my  mother  : 
"  You  must  think  it  strange,  dear  madam,  that  I  brought 
Miss  Benette  away  from  London,  and  alone.  I  could 
not  remain  in  London  myself,  and  I  have  known  for 
years  that  her  voice,  in  itself,  would  become  to  her  more 
than  the  expected  heritage.  My  aunt  taught  her  only 
to  work.  This  was  my  stipulation ;  and  she  now  not 
only  supports  herself  by  working,  —  for  she  is  very  inde- 
pendent, —  but  is  in  possession  of  a  separate  fund  be- 


102  CHARLES  A  UC HESTER. 

sides,  which  is  to  carry  her  through  a  course  of  complete 
instruction  elsewhere^  —  perhaps  in  Italy  or  Germany." 

I  saw  how  much  my  mother  felt  impressed  by  the  dig- 
nity and  self-reliance  that  so  characterized  him,  but  I 
scarcely  expected  she  would  take  so  warm  an  interest  in 
his  protegee.  She  said  she  should  like  to  see  some  of 
Miss  Benette's  work ;  and  again  I  descanted  on  its  beau- 
ties and  varieties,  supported  by  my  hero,  who  seemed  to 
admire  it  almost  as  much  as  I  did. 

'*  Then  I  may  go  and  practise  with  Miss  Benette?  " 
I  said,  in  conclusion. 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  and  you  must  ask  her  to  come  and 
see  you  some  evening  when  Mr.  Davy  is  kind  enough  to 
drink  tea  with  us." 

"That  curious  little  Laura  too,"  thought  I;  "they 
would  not  like  her  so  well,  I  fancy.  But  though  I  do 
dislike  her  myself,  I  wish  I  could  find  out  what  they 
do  with  her." 

I  was  going  to  practise  the  day  after  the  next,  and 
methought  I  will  then  discover. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

I  TOOK  a  very  small  pot  of  honey  for  Miss  Benette ; 
Millicent  had  begged  it  for  me  of  Lydia,  who  was 
queen-bee  of  the  store-closet.  I  ran  all  the  way  as 
usual,  and  was  very  glad  to  get  in.  The  same  freshness 
pervaded  the  staircase  ;  but  when  I  reached  the  black 
door,  I  heard  two  voices  instead  of  one.  I  was  rather 
put  out.  ''  Laura  is  there  !  I  shall*  not  hke  singing  with 
her  ;  it  is  very  tiresome  !  "  I  stood  still  and  listened  ; 
it  was  very  lovely.  How  ineffable  music  must  be  to  the 
bhnd  !  yet  oh,  to  miss  that  which  may  be  embraced  by 
sight !  I  knocked,  and  they  did  not  hear  me  ;  again  — 
they  both  ceased  singing,  and  Laura  ran  to  the  door. 
Instead  of  being  dressed  in  her  old  clothes,  she  per- 
fectly startled  me  by  the  change  in  her  costume,  —  a 
glittering  change,  and  one  from  herself;  for  through  it 
she  appeared  unearthly,  and  if  not  spiritual,  something 
very  near  it.  Large  gauze  pantaloons,  drawn  in  at  the 
ankles,  looked  like  globes  of  air  about  her  feet;  her 
white  silk  slippers  were  covered  with  spangles ;  so  also 
was  her  frock,  and  made  of  an  illusive  material  like 
clouds;  and  her  white  sash,  knotted  at  her  side,  was 
edged  with  silver  fringe.  Her  amber  necklace  was  no 
more  there,  but  on  her  arms  she  had  thick  silver  rings, 
with  little  clinking  bells  attached.  She  wore  her  hair, 
not  in  those  stray  ringlets,  but  drawn  into  two  broad 
plaits,  unfastened  by  knot  or  ribbon ;  but  a  silver  net 
covered  all  her  head  behind,  though  it  met  not  her  fore- 


104  CHARLES  AC/CHESTER. 

head  in  front,  over  whose  wide,  but  low  expanse,  her  im- 
mense eyes  opened  themselves  like  lustrous  moons. 

"  Miss  Lemark,"  cried  I,  unfeignedly,  "  what  are  you 
going  to  do  in  that  dress  ?  " 

"  Come,  Master  Auchester,  do  not  trouble  her ;  she 
must  be  ready  for  her  papa  when  he  calls,  so  I  have 
dressed  her  in  order  that  she  might  practise  with  us." 

"  Miss  Benette,"  I  answered,  "  I  think  it  is  most  ex- 
tremely pretty,  though  very  queer ;  and  I  did  not  mean 
to  tease  her.  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  why  you  put  it 
on,  though." 

''  To  dance  in,"  said  Laura,  composedly.  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  dance  in  '  Scheradez,  or  the  Magic  Pumpkin.'  It 
is  so  pretty  !  But  Miss  Benette  is  so  kind  to  me ;  she 
lets  me  have  tea  with  her  the  nights  I  dance." 

''But  do  you  live  in  this  house,  then?  " 

'•'  Oh,  I  wish  I  did  !  Oh,  Clara,  I  wish  I  did  live  with 
you  !  "  and  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  her  tears. 

Miss  Benette  arose  and  came  to  her,  laying  down  a 
piece  of  muslin  she  was  embroidering.  "  Do  not  cry, 
dear  ;  it  will  spoil  your  pretty  frock,  —  besides,  Master 
Auchester  has  come  on  purpose  to  sing,  and  you  detain 
him." 

Laura  instantly  sat  on  a  chair  before  the  music-stand ; 
her  diaphanous  skirts  stood  round  her  like  the  petals  of 
a  flower,  and  with  the  tears  yet  undried  she  began  to 
sing,  in  a  clear  httle  voice,  as  expressionless  as  her  eyes, 
but  as  enchanting  to  the  full  as  her  easy,  painless  move- 
ments. It  was  very  pleasurable  work  now,  and  Clara 
corrected  us  both,  she  all  the  while  sustaining  a  pure 
golden  soprano. 

"  I  am  tired,"  suddenly  said  Laura. 

"  Then  go  into  the  other  room  and  rest  a  litde.  Do 
not  ruffle  your  hair,  which  I  have  smoothed  so  nicely. 


THE  DAiXCE.  I05 

and  be  sure  not  to  lie  down  upon  the  bed,  or  you  will 
make  those  light  skirts  as  flat  as  pancakes." 

"  How  am  I  to  rest,  then  ?  " 

"  In  the  great  white  chair." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  sit  still,  —  I  only  mean  I  am 
tired  of  singing.     I  want  to  dance  my  pas^ 

"  Then  go  into  the  other  room  all  the  same  ;  there  is 
no  carpet,  —  it  is  best." 

"  I  don't  Hke  dancing  in  that  room,  it  is  so  small." 

"  It  is  not  smaller  than  this  one.  The  fact  is,  you 
want  to  dance  to  Master  Auchester." 

"Yes,  so  I  do." 

"  But  he  came  to  sing,  not  to  see  you." 

*^  I  should  like  to  see  her  dance,  though,"  said  I. 
"  Do  let  her.  Miss  Benette  !  " 

"  If  you  can  stay.  But  do  not  begin  the  whole  of 
that  dance,  Laura, —  only  the  finale,  because  there  will 
not  be  time  ;  and  you  will  besides  become  too  warm,  if 
you  dance  from  the  beginning,  for  the  cold  air  you  must 
meet  on  your  way  to  the  theatre." 

Miss  Benette's  solemn  manner  had  great  authority 
over  the  child,  it  was  certain.  She  waited  until  the 
elder  had  put  aside  the  brown  table,  —  "  That  you  may 
not  blow  my  bits  of  work  about  and  tread  upon  them," 
she  remarked.     "  Shall  I  sing  for  you,  Laura?  " 

"  Oh,  please  do,  pray  do.  Miss  Benette  !  "  I  cried ; 
"it  will  be  so  charming." 

She  began  gravely,  as  in  the  anthem,  but  with  the 
same  serene  and  genial  perfection,  to  give  the  notes  of 
a  wild  measure,  in  triple  time,  though  not  a  waltz. 

Laura  stood  still  and  gazed  upwards  until  the  open- 
ing bars  had  sounded,  then  she  sprang,  as  it  were,  into 
space,  and  her  whole  aspect  altered.  Her  cheeks  grew 
flushed  as  with  a  fiery  impulse  ;  her  arms  were  stretched, 


I06  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

as  if  embracing  something  more  ethereal  than  her  own 
presence ;  a  suavity,  that  was  almost  languor,  at  the 
same  time  took  possession  of  her  motions.  The  figure 
was  full  of  difficulty,  the  time  rapid,  the  step  absolutely 
twinkling.  I  was  enraptured ;  I  was  lost  in  this  kind  of 
wonder,  —  "  How  very  strange  that  any  one  should  call 
dancing  wrong  when  it  is  like  that !  How  extraordinary 
that  every  one  does  not  think  it  lovely  !  How  mysteri- 
ous that  no  one  should  talk  about  her  as  a  very  great 
wonder  !  She  is  almost  as  great  a  wonder  as  Miss 
Benette.  I  should  like  to  know  whether  Mr.  Davy 
has  seen  her  dance." 

But  though  I  called  it  dancing,  as  I  supposed  I  must, 
it  was  totally  unlike  all  that  I  had  considered  dancing 
to  be.  She  seemed  now  suspended  in  the  air,  her  feet 
flew  out  with  the  spangles  like  a  shower  of  silver  sparks, 
her  arms  were  flung  above  her,  and  the  silver  bells,  as 
she  floated  by  me  without  even  brushing  my  coat, 
clinked  with  a  thrilling  monotone  against  Clara's  voice. 
Again  she  whirled  backwards,  and,  letting  her  arms  sink 
down,  as  if  through  water  or  some  resisting  medium, 
fell  into  an  attitude  that  restored  the  undulating  move- 
ment to  her  frame,  while  her  feet  again  twinkled,  and 
her  eyes  were  raised.  "  Oh  ! "  I  exclaimed,  "  how 
lovely  you  look  when  you  do  that !  "  for  the  expression 
struck  me  suddenly.  It  was  an  illumination  as  from 
above,  beyond  the  clouds,  giving  a  totally  different  as- 
pect from  any  other  she  had  worn.  But  lost  in  her 
maze,  she  did  not,  I  believe,  hear  me.  She  quickened 
and  quickened  her  footsteps  till  they  merely  skimmed 
the  carpet,  and,  with  a  slide  upon  the  very  air,  shook 
the  silver  bells  as  she  once  more  arched  her  arms  and 
made  a  deep  and  spreading  reverence.  Miss  Benette 
looked  up  at  me  and  smiled. 


AfV  PRESENT  OF  HONEY.  10/ 

*'  Now  you  must  go ;  it  is  your  time,  and  1  want  to 
give  Laura  her  tea." 

"  I  have  brought  you  some  honey,  Miss  Benette. 
Will  you  eat  it  with  your  bread  ?  It  is  better  than  bon- 
bons, Miss  Laura." 

"  I  did  not  care  for  the  bonbons ;  I  only  thought  you 
would  like  them.     They  gave  them  to  me  at  rehearsal." 

*'  Do  you  go  to  rehearsal,  then,  as  well  as  the 
singers  ? '' 

"  I  go  to  rehearsal  in  the  ballet ;  and  when  there  is 
no  ballet  I  sing  in  the  chorus." 

"  But  you  are  so  little  :  do  you  always  dance  ?  " 

*'  I  am  always  to  dance  now ;  I  did  not  until  this 
season." 

Her  voice  was  dreamy  and  cold,  the  flush  had  al- 
ready faded  ;  she  seemed  not  speaking  with  the  slightest 
consciousness. 

"  Do  go,  Master  Auchester  ! "  and  Clara  looked  at 
me  from  her  azure  eyes  as  kindly  as  if  she  smiled.  "  Do 
go,  or  she  will  have  no  tea,  and  will  be  very  tired.  I 
am  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  the  sweet  yellow  honey  \ 
I  shall  keep  it  in  my  closet,  in  that  pretty  blue  jar." 

I  would  have  the  blue  jar,  though  Lydia  wanted  me 
to  take  a  white  one. 

"  Oh,  pray  eat  the  honey,  and  give  me  the  jar  to  fill 
again !  I  won't  stay,  don't  be  afraid,  but  good-night. 
Won't  you  let  me  shake  hands  with  you,  Miss  Lemark  ?  " 
for  she  still  stood  apart,  hke  a  reed  in  a  sultry  day. 
She  looked  at  me  directly.  "  Good-night,  dear  !  "  I 
was  so  inexpressibly  touched  by  the  tone,  or  the  man- 
ner, or  the  mysterious  something  —  that  haunted  her 
dancing— in  her,  that  I  added,  "Shall  I  bring  you 
some  flowers  next  class-night?" 

"  If  you  please." 


I08  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Oh,  do  go,  Master  Auchester  !  I  prayed  you  ten 
minutes  ago." 

"I  am  gone."  And  so  I  was;  and  this  time  I  was 
not  too  late  for  my  own  tea  at  home. 

There  must  be  something  starthngly  perfect  in  that 
which  returns  upon  the  soul  with  a  more  absolute  im- 
pression after  its  abstraction  of  our  faculties  has  passed 
away.  So  completely  had  the  fascination  of  those  steps 
sufficed  that  I  forgot  the  voice  of  IMiss  Benette,  re- 
sounding all  the  time,  and  only  associated  in  my  recol- 
lection the  silver  monotone  of  the  clinking  bells  with 
the  lulling  undulation,  the  quivering  feet.  All  night 
long,  when  I  dreamed,  it  was  so ;  and  when  I  awoke  in 
the  morning  (as  usual),  I  thought  the  evening  before, 
a  dream. 

I  dared  not  mention  Laura  to  any  one  except  ]\Iilli- 
cent,  but  I  could  not  exist  without  some  species  of 
sympathy  ;  and  when  I  had  finished  all  my  tasks,  I  en- 
treated her  to  go  out  with  me  alone.  She  had  some 
purchases  to  make,  and  readily  agreed.  It  was  a  great 
treat  to  me  to  walk  with  her  at  any  time.  I  cannot 
recollect  how  I  introduced  the  subject,  but  I  managed 
to  ask  somehow,  after  some  preamble,  whether  my 
mother  thought  it  wrong  to  dance  in  public. 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  replied,  directly.  "  Some  peo- 
ple are  obliged  to  do  so  in  order  to  live.  They  excel 
in  that  art  as  others  excel  in  other  arts,  and  it  is  a  rare 
gift  to  possess  the  faculty  to  excel  in  that,  as  in  all 
other  arts." 

"  So,  IMillicent,  she  would  not  mind  my  knowing  a 
dance-artist  any  more  than  any  other  artist?" 

"  Certainly  it  is  the  greatest  privilege  to  know  true 
artists ;  but  there  are  few  in  the  whole  world.  How 
few,  then,  there  must  be  in  our  little  comer  of  it ! " 


/  DESCRIBE  LAURA'S  DANCING,  109 

"  You  call  Mr.  Davy  an  artist,  I  suppose  ?  " 

*^I  think  he  pursues  art  as  a  student,  who,  having 
learned  its  first  principles  for  himself,  is  anxious  to  place 
others  in  possession  of  them  before  he  himself  soars  into 
its  higher  mysteries.  So  far  I  call  him  philanthropist 
and  aspirant,  but  scarcely  an  artist  yet." 

"  Was  our  conductor  an  artist?  " 

"  Oh  !  I  should  think  so,  no  doubt.  Why  did  you 
ask  me  about  artists,  Charles?" 

'•'  Oh,  I  suppose  you  would  not  call  a  little  girl  an 
artist  if  she  were  as  clever  as  possible.  There  is  a  little 
girl  at  the  class  who  sits  very  near  me.  She  is  a  great 
favorite  of  Miss  Benette.  Such  a  curious  child,  Milli- 
cent !  I  could  not  endure  her  till  yesterday  evening. 
She  was  there  when  I  went  to  practise,  all  ready  dressed 
for  the  theatre.  She  looked  a  most  lovely  thing,  —  not 
hke  a  person  at  all,  but  as  if  she  could  fly ;  and  she 
wore  such  beautiful  clothes  !  " 

Millicent  was  evidently  very  much  surprised. 

^'  She  lives  with  Miss  Benette,  then,  Charles?" 

"  Oh,  no ;  for  I  asked  her,  and  she  said  she  wished 
she  did.  I  should  rather  think  somebody  or  other  is 
unkind  to  her,  for  Miss  Benette  seems  to  pity  her  so 
much.  Well,  I  was  going  to  tell  you,  Millicent,  she 
danced  !  Oh,  it  was  beyond  everything  !  You  never  saw 
anything  so  exquisite.  I  could  hardly  watch  her  about 
the  room  ;  she  quite  swam,  and  turned  her  eyes  upward. 
She  looked  quite  different  from  what  she  was  at  the 
class." 

"■  I  should  think  so.  I  have  always  heard  that  stage 
dancing  is  very  fascinating,  but  I  have  never  seen  it,  you 
know  ;  and  I  do  not  think  mother  would  like  you  to  see 
her  often,  for  she  considers  you  too  young  to  go  to  a 
theatre  at  all." 


no  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Why  should  I  be  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  all  her  reasons,  but  the  chief  one  I 
should  suspect  to  be,  is  that  it  does  not  close  until  very 
late,  and  that  the  ballet  is  the  last  thing  of  all  in  the 
entertainment." 

"  Yes,  I  know  the  ballet.  Laura  does  dance  in  the 
ballet,  she  told  me  so.  But  she  danced  in  the  daylight 
when  I  saw  her,  so  there  could  be  no  harm  in  it." 

"  Xo  harm  !  There  is  no  harm  in  what  is  beautiful : 
but  mother  likes  you  to  be  fresh  for  everything  you  do 
in  the  daytime,  and  that  cannot  be  unless  you  sleep 
early,  no  less  than  well.  She  asked  me  the  other  day 
whether  I  did  not  think  you  looked  very  pale  the 
mornings  after  the  classes." 

"  Oh,  what  did  you  say?  " 

"  I  said,  '  He  is  always  pale,  dear  mother,  but  he 
never  looks  so  refreshed  by  any  sleep  as  when  he  comes 
down  those  mornings,  I  think.' " 

*^  Dear  Millicent !  you  are  so  kind,  I  shall  never  for- 
get it.     Now  do  come  and  call  upon  Miss  Benette." 

"  My  dear  Charles,  I  have  never  been  introduced 
to  her." 

"  How  formal,  to  be  sure  !  She  would  be  so  glad  if  we 
went ;  she  would  love  you  directly,  —  everybody  does." 

"  I  do  not  wish  they  should,  Charles.  You  must 
know  very  well  I  had  better  keep  away.  I  do  not  be- 
long to  the  class,  and  if  she  lives  alone,  she  of  course 
prefers  not  to  be  intruded  upon  by  strangers." 

"  Of  course  not,  generally.  I  am  sure  she  ought  not 
to  live  alone.  She  must  be  wanting  somebody  to  speak 
to  sometimes." 

"  You  are  determined  she  shall  have  you,  at  all  events." 

"  Oh,  no  !  I  am  nothing  to  her,  I  know  ;  but  I  can 
sing,  so  she  likes  me  to  go." 


DOES  SHE  LIVE  ALONE;  m 

"  I  suppose  she  is  quite  a  woman,  Charles  ?  " 

Oh  ,    yes  I   she  is  fourteen." 

"  ;My  dear  Charles,  she  cannot  live  alone.  She  is  but 
a  child,  then  ;  I  thought  her  so  much  older  than  that." 

"  Oh  1  did  not  Mr.  Davy  say  so  the  other  night? " 

"  I  did  not  notice  ;  I  do  not  think  so." 

"  Oh  :  he  told  me  the  first  time  I  asked  him  about  her." 

Millicent  laughed  again,  as  we  went  on,  at  the  idea  of 
her  living  alone.     I  still  persisted  it  was  a  fact. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  next  being  our  night,  after  dinner  the  next 
day  I  went  to  my  garden.  It  was  growing 
latest  autumn,  but  still  we  had  had  no  frosts.  My 
monthly  roses  were  in  full  bloom,  my  fuchsias  flower- 
laden.  Then  I  had  a  geranium  or  two,  labelled  with 
my  name,  in  the  little  greenhouse.  I  gathered  as  many 
as  I  could  hold  in  both  my  hands,  and  carried  them  into 
the  parlor. 

"  You  have  some  flowers  there,"  said  Clo,  with 
condescension. 

*'  It  is  a  pity  to  gather  them  when  there  are  so  few 
out,"  remarked  Lydia,  without  lifting  her  eyes  from  her 
work. 

I  took  no  notice  of  them.  Millicent  beckoned  me 
out  of  the  parlor. 

"  I  will  give  you  some  ribbon,  Charles,  if  you  will 
come  to  my  room." 

So  she  did,  and  she  arranged  my  flowers  so  as  to 
infuse  into  their  autumnal  aspect  the  glow  of  summer, 
so  skilfully  she  grouped  the  crimson  of  the  geraniums 
against  the  pale  roses  and  purple  stocks.  I  set  forth, 
holding  them  in  my  hand.  For  the  first  time,  I  met 
Davy  before  I  went  in.  He  shook  hands,  and  asked  me 
to  come  to  tea  with  him  on  the  morrow. 

Clara  was  there  alone.  She  greeted  me  gravely,  and 
yet  I  thought  she  would  have  smiled,  had  there  not 
been  something  to  make  her  grave. 


LAURA'S  ILLXESS.  II3 

"  Miss  Benette  ! "  I  whispered,  but  she  would  not 
answer. 

Davy  had  just  emerged  below.  We  were  making 
rapid  progress.  I  always  made  way,  not  only  because 
my  ear  was  true  and  my  voice  pure,  but  because  I  was 
sustained  by  the  purest  voice  and  the  truest  ear  in  the 
class.  But  now  the  other  voices  grew  able  to  support 
themselves,  and  nothing  can  be  imagined  more  perfect 
in  its  way  than  the  communion  of  the  parts  as  they 
exactly  balanced  each  other,  —  the  separate  voices  toned 
down  and  blended  into  a  full  effect  that  extinguished 
any  sensible  difference  bet\veen  one  and  another. 

I  am  very  matter  of  fact,  I  know ;  but  that  is  better 
than  to  be  commonplace,  —  and  not  the  same  thing, 
though  they  are  often  confounded.  If  the  real  be  the 
ideal,  then  is  the  matter  of  fact  the  true.  This  ghost  of 
an  aphorism  stalked  forth  from  my  brain,  whose  cham- 
bers are  unfraught  with  book-lore  as  with  worldly  knowl- 
edge j  and  to  lay  its  phantomship,  I  am  compelled  to 
submit  it  to  paper. 

I  could  not  make  Clara  attend  to  me  until  all  was 
over.     Then  she  said  to  me  of  her  own  accord,  — 

"  Little  Laura  is  ill ;  she  caught  cold  after  she  danced 
the  other  evening,  and  has  been  in  bed  since." 

"  Will  you  have  these  flowers,  then  ?  I  am  afraid  they 
are  half  faded,  though  my  hand  is  very  cold." 

"  I  will  take  them  to  Laura,  —  she  has  no  flowers." 

"  I  am  very  sorry ;  I  hope  it  was  not  my  fault,  —  I 
mean,  I  hope  it  did  not  tire  her  to  dance  before  me 
first." 

"  Oh,  no !  it  was  her  papa's  fault  for  letting  her  come 
into  the  cold  air  without  being  well  ^^Tapped  up.  She 
had  a  shawl  to  put  on,  and  a  cloak  besides,  of  mine ; 
but  her  papa  gave  them  to  somebody  else." 

VOL.  I.  — 8 


114  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  How  dreadfully  unkind  !  Is  it  her  papa  who  did 
such  a  thing?" 

"  Her  own  father.  But  look,  Master  Auchester,  there 
is  Mr.  Davy  beckoning  to  you.  And  I  must  go,  —  my 
nurse  is  waiting  for  me." 

"  So  is  mine,  downstairs.     Have  you  a  nurse  too?  " 

"  I  call  her  so ;  she  came  from  Germany  to  find  me, 
and  now  I  take  care  of  her." 

I  was  very  anxious  to  see  how  Davy  would  address  his 
adopted  child,  who  numbered  half  his  years,  and  I  still 
detained  her,  hoping  that  he  would  join  us.  I  was  not 
mistaken ;  for  Davy,  smiling  to  himself  at  my  obstinate 
disregard  of  his  salute,  stepped  up  through  the  interven- 
ing forms.  "  So  you  would  not  come  down,  Charles  !  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  to  come  early,  as  I  wish  to  try  your 
voice  with  Miss  Benette's.  Come  at  least  by  five 
o'clock." 

He  looked  at  Clara,  and  I  looked  at  her.  Without  a 
smile  upon  her  sweet  face  (but  in  the  plenitude  of  that 
infantine  gravity  which  so  enchanted  the  7iot  youngest 
part  of  myself),  she  bowed  to  him  and  answered,  ^'  If 
you  please,  sir.  Then  I  am  not  to  come  in  the 
morning?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  the  morning  also,  if  you  can  spare  time. 
You  know  why  I  wish  to  hear  you  sing  together?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  —  you  told  me.  Good  night,  Master 
Auchester,  and,  sir,  to  you." 

And  she  ran  out,  having  replaced  her  black  bonnet 
and  long  veil.  Davy  spoke  a  few  words  of  gratified 
commendation  in  reference  to  our  universal  progress, 
and  then,  as  the  room  was  nearly  empty,  brought  me 
downstairs.     I  asked  him  about  Laura. 

"  Oh  !  she  is  not  dangerously  ill." 

"  But  I  suppose  she  may  be  suffering,"  I  added,  in  a 


DAW'S  DEBT.  II5 

sharp  tone,  for  which  I  had  been  reproved  times  with- 
out number  at  home. 

"Why,  as  to  that,  we  must  all  instruct  ourselves  to 
suffer.  I  am  very  sorry  for  my  little  pupil.  She  has 
had  an  attack  of  inflammation,  but  is  only  now  kept 
still  by  weakness,  Miss  Benette  tells  me." 

"  Miss  Benette  is  very  good  to  her,  I  think." 

"  Miss  Benette  is  very  good  to  everybody,"  said 
Davy,  earnestly,  with  a  strange,  bright  meaning  in  his 
accent.  I  looked  up  at  him,  but  it  was  too  dark  to 
see  his  expressive  face,  for  now  we  were  in  the  street. 

"  She  is  good  to  me,  but  could  hardly  be  so  to  you, 
sir.  She  says  you  have  done  ever}1:hing  for  her,  and 
do  still." 

"I  try  to  do  my  dut}'  by  her ;  but  I  owe  to  her 
more  than  I  can  ever  repay." 

How  curious,  to  be  sure  !  I  thought,  but  I  did  not 
say  so,  there  was  a  preventive  hush  in  his  tone  and 
manner. 

"I  should  so  like  to  know  what  we  shall  sing 
to-morrow." 

"So  you  shall,  to-morrow;  but  to-night  I  scarcely 
know  myself.  I  will  come  in  with  you,  that  I  may 
obtain  your  mother's  permission  to  run  away  with  you 
again,  —  but  not  to  another  festival  just  yet ;  I  could 
almost  say,     Would  that  it  were  ! '  " 

"I  could  quite,  su-." 

"  But  we  must  make  a  musical  feast  ourselves,  you 
and  I." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  pray  let  me  be  a  side-dish.  *' 

"'  That  you  shall  be.     But  here  we  are." 

Supper  was  spread  in  our  parlor,  and  my  sisters 
looked  a  perfect  picture  of  health,  comfort,  and  in- 
terest, —  three  beatitudes  of  domestic  existence.     Lydia 


Il6  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

answered    to  the  first,  Clo  to  the  second  (she  having 
fallen  asleep  in  her  chair  by  the  charmingly  brilliant 
fire)j  and  dear  Millicent,  on  our  entrance,  to  the  third ; 
for  she  looked  half  up  and  glowed,  the  firelight  played 
upon  her  brow,  but  there  was  a  gleam,  more  like  moon- 
light, upon  her  lips  as  she  smiled  to  welcome  us.     My 
mother,  fresh  fi-om  a  doze,  sympathetic  with  Clo,  ex- 
tended her  hand  with  all  her  friendhness  to  Davy,  and 
forced  him  to  sit  down  and  begin  upon  the  plate  she 
had  filled,  before  she  would  suffer  him  to  speak.     It 
was  too  tormenting,  but  so  it  was,  that   she   thought 
proper  to  send  me  to  bed  after  I  had  eaten  a  slice  of 
bread  and  marmalade,  before  he  had  finished  eating. 
I  gave  Millicent  a  look  into  her  eyes,  however,  which 
I  knew   she  understood,  and   I  therefore  kept  awake, 
expecting  her  after  Margareth  had  put  out  my  candle. 
My   fear   was  lest  my   mother,   dear  creature,   should 
come  up  first,  for  I  still  slept  in  a  corner  of  her  room ; 
but  I  knew  Davy  could  not  leave  without  my  knowing 
it,  as  every  sound  passed  into  my  brain  from  below. 
At  last  I  listened  for  the  steps,  for  which  I  was  always 
obliged  to  listen,  soft  as  her  touch  and  gentle  eyes,  and 
I  felt  Millicent  enter  all  in  the  dark. 

"  Well,  Charies  !  "  she  began,  as  she  put  aside  my 
curtain  and  leaned  against  my  mattress,  "it  is  another 
treat  for  you,  though  not  so  great  a  one  as  your  first 
glory,  and  you  will  have  to  sustain  your  own  credit 
rather  more  specially.  Do  you  know  the  Priory,  on 
the  Lawborough  Road,  not  a  great  way  from  Mr. 
Hargreave's   factory?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it ;  what  of  that  ?  " 
"  The  Redferns  live  there,  and  the  young  ladies  are 
Mr.  Davy's  pupils." 

"  Not  at  the  class,  I  suppose?  " 


A   MUSIC  ALE.  117 

"  No ;  but  Mr.  Davy  gives  them  singing  lessons,  and 
he  says  they  are  rather  clever,  though  perhaps  not  too 
really  musical.  They  are  very  fond  of  anything  new ; 
and  now  they  intend  to  give  a  large  musical  party, 
as  they  have  been  present  at  one  during  a  stay  they 
made  in  London  lately.  It  is  to  be  a  very  select 
party;  some  amateur  performers  are  expected,  and 
Mr.  Davy  is  going  to  sing  professionally.  Not  only 
so,  the  young  ladies'  pianoforte  master  will  be  present, 
and  most  likely  a  truly  great  player,  Charles,  an 
artist,  — the  violinist  Santonio." 

"  Was  he  at  the  festival? " 

"  Oh,  no !  Mr.  Davy  says  they  have  wTitten  to  him 
to  come  from  London.  But  now  I  must  explain  your 
part.  Mr.  Da\y  was  requested  to  bring  a  vocal  quartet 
from  his  class,  as  none  of  the  guests  can  sing  in  parts. 
He  is  to  take  Miss  Benette  as  a  soprano,  for  he  says  her 
soprano  is  as  superior  as  her  lower  voice." 

"So  it  is." 

"  And  some  tenor  or  other." 

"  Mr.  Newton,  I  daresay ;  he  leads  all  the  others." 

"  I  think  it  was.  And  you,  Charles,  he  \vishes  to 
take,  for  he  says  your  alto  voice  is  very  beautiful.  You 
will  do  your  best,  I  know\" 

"  I  would  do  a?iy thing  to  hear  a  great  vdolin-player." 

And  full  of  the  novel  notion,  I  fell  asleep  much 
sooner  than  I  did  (as  a  child)  when  no  excitement  was 
before  me. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MY  mother,  besides  being  essentially  an  unworldly 
person,  had,  I  think,  given  up  the  cherished  idea 
of  my  becoming  a  great  mercantile  character,  and  even 
the  expectation  that  I  should  take  kindly  to  the  prospec- 
tive partnership  with  Fred ;  for  certainly  she  allowed  me 
to  devote  more  time  to  my  music  tasks  with  Millicent 
than  to  any  others.  I  owe  a  great  deal  to  that  sister 
of  mine,  and  particularly  the  early  acquaintance  I  made 
with  intervals,  scales,  and  chords.  Already  she  had 
taught  me  to  play  from  figured  basses  a  little,  to  read 
elementary  books,  and  to  write  upon  a  ruled  slate 
simple  studies  in  harmony. 

Hardly  conscious  who  helped  me  on,  I  was  helped 
very  far  indeed.  Other  musicians,  before  whom  I  bow, 
have  been  guided  in  the  first  toneless  symbols  and 
effects  of  tone  by  the  hand,  the  voice,  the  brain  of 
women ;  but  they  have  generally  been  famous  women. 
My  sister  was  a  quiet  girl.  Never  mind;  she  had  a 
fame  of  her  own  at  last.  Davy,  considering  I  was  in 
progress,  said  no  more  about  teaching  me  himself,  and 
indeed  it  was  unnecessary.  I  was  certainly  rather 
surprised  at  my  mother's  permission  for  me  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  Redferns',  first  and  chiefly  because  I 
had  never  visited  any  house  she  did  not  frequent  her- 
self, and  she  had  never  been  even  introduced  to  this 
family,  though  we  had  seen  them  in  their  large  pew  at 
church,  and  I  was   rather  fond  of  watching  them, — 


TEA   AGAIN.  119 

they  being  about  our  choicest  gentry.  For  all  the 
while  I  conceived  I  should  be  a  visitor,  and  that  each 
of  us  would  be  on  the  same  footing. 

Had  I  not  been  going  to  accompany  Da\7,  I  should 
have  become  nen-ous  at  the  notion  of  attending  a  great 
party  met  at  a  fashionable  house ;  but  as  it  was,  it  did 
but  conceal  for  me  a  glorious  unkno\\Ti,  and  I  exulted 
while  I  trembled  a  Httle  at  my  secret  heart. 

But  I  went  to  my  master  as  he  had  requested,  and 
he  let  me  into  his  shell.  I  smelt  again  that  dehcious 
tea,  and  it  exhilarated  me  as  on  the  first  occasion. 
Upstairs,  m  the  Httle  room,  was  ^Miss  Benette.  She 
was  dressed  as  usual,  but  I  thought  she  had  never 
worn  anything  yet  so  becoming  as  that  plain  black 
silk  frock.  The  beautiful  china  was  upon  the  table, 
now  placed  for  three ;  and  child  as  I  was,  I  could  not 
but  feel  most  exquisitely  the  loveliness  of  that  simpUcity 
which  rendered  so  charming  and  so  convenient  the 
association  of  three  ages  so  incongruous. 

There  are  few  girls  of  fourteen  who  are  women 
enough  to  comport  themselves  with  the  inbred  dignity 
that  appertains  to  woman  in  her  highest  development, 
and  there  are  few  women  who  retain  the  perfume  and 
essence  of  infancy.  These  were  flung  around  Clara  in 
every  movement,  at  each  smile  or  glance ;  and  those 
adorned  her  as  -^^ith  regality,  —  a  regaht}-  to  which  one 
is  bom,  not  with  which  one  has  been  invested.  She 
did  not  make  tea  for  Davy,  nor  did  she  interfere  with 
his  httle  arrangements  j  but  she  sat  by  me  and  talked 
to  me  spontaneously,  while  she  only  spoke  when  he 
questioned,  or  listened  while  he  spoke. 

There  was  perfect  serenity  upon  her  face,  —  yes  !  just 
the  serenity  of  a  cloudless  heaven ;  and  had  I  been 
older,  I  should  have  vv^hispered  to  myself  that  her  peace 


I20  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

of  soul  was  all  safe,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned.  But 
I  did  not  think  about  it,  though  I  might  naturally  have 
done  so,  for  I  was  romantic  to  intensity,  even  as  a  boy. 

"How  is  Miss  Lemark?"  I  suddenly  inquired,  while 
Davy  was  in  the  other  Uttle  room.  I  forgot  to  men- 
tion that  my  surmise  was  well  founded,  —  he  had  no 
servant. 

"  She  is  much  better,  thank  you,  or  I  should  not  have 
come  here.  The  flowers  look  very  fresh  to-day,  and 
she  hes  where  she  can  see  them." 

"When  will  she  get  up?" 

"  I  have  persuaded  her  to  remain  in  bed  even  longer 
than  she  needs ;  for  the  moment  she  gets  up  they  will 
make  her  dance,  and  she  is  not  strong  enough  for 
that  yet." 

Davy  here  returned,  and  we  began  to  sing.  We  had 
a  delicious  hour.  In  that  small  room  Clara's  voice 
was  no  more  too  powerfully  perceptible  than  is  the 
sunlight  in  its  entrance  to  a  tiny  cell,  —  that  glory 
which  itself  is  the  day  of  heaven.  She  sang  with  the 
most  rarefied  softness,  and  I  quite  realized  how  infin- 
itely she  was  my  superior  in  art  no  less  than  by 
nature. 

What  we  chiefly  worked  upon  were  glees,  single 
quartet  pieces,  and  an  anthem ;  but  last  of  all,  Davy 
produced  two  duets  for  soprano  and  alto,  —  one  from 
Purcell,  the  other  from  a  very  old  opera,  the  hundred 
and  something  one  of  the  Hamburg  Kaiser,  which  our 
master  had  himself  copied  from  a  copy. 

"  Shall  you  sing  with  us  in  all  the  four-parted  pieces, 
sir?"  I  ventured  to  ask  during  the  symphony  of  this 
last. 

"  Yes,  certainly ;  and  I  shall  accompany  you  both  in- 
variably.    But  of  all  things  do  not  be  afraid,  nor  trouble 


LONG  PRACTICE.  121 

yourselves  the  least  about  singing  in  company  :  nothing 
is  so  easy  as  to  sing  in  a  high  room  like  that  of  the  Red- 
ferns',  and  nothing  is  so  difficult  as  to  sing  in  a  small 
room  Hke  this." 

"  I  do  not  find  it  so  difficult,  su*,"  said  Clara,  gravely. 

*'  That  is  because.  Miss  Benette,  you  have  already 
had  your  voice  under  perfect  control  for  months.  You 
have  been  accustomed  to  practise  nine  hours  a  day 
without  an  instrument,  and  nothing  is  so  self-supporting 
as  such  necessity." 

"  Yes,  sir,  it  is  very  good,  but  not  so  charming  as  to 
sing  with  your  sweet  piano." 

"  Do  you  really  practise  nine  hours  a  day,  Miss 
Benette  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Master  Auchester,  always ;  and  I  find  it  not 
enough." 

"  But  do  you  practise  without  a  piano  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  best  for  me  ;  but  when  I  come  to  my  les- 
sons and  hear  the  delightful  keys,  I  feel  as  if  music  had 
come  out  of  heaven  to  talk  with  me." 

"  Ah,  Miss  Benette  ! "  said  Davy,  with  a  kind  of  ex- 
ultation, "  what  will  it  be  when  you  are  singing  in  the 
heart  of  a  grand  orchestra  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  one,  sir,  you  know ;  but  I  should 
think  that  it  was  like  going  into  heaven  after  music  and 
remaining  there." 

"  But  were  you  not  at  the  festival,  Miss  Benette  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  " 

"  How  ver}^  odd,  when  I  was  there  !  " 

Davy  looked  suddenly  at  her ;  but  though  his  quick, 
bright  glance  might  have  startled  away  her  answer,  that 
came  as  calmly  as  all  her  words,  —  like  a  breeze  awak- 
ening from  the  south. 

^'  I  did  not  desire  to  go  ;  Mr.  Davy  had  the  kindness 


122  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

to  propose  I  should,  but  I  knew  it  would  make  me  idle 
afterwards,  and  I  cannot  afford  to  waste  my  time.  I  am 
growing  old." 

"  Now,  Miss  Benette,  there  is  our  servant  or  your 
nurse,"  for  I  heard  a  knock.  ''Will  you  let  me  come 
to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Just  for  half  an  hour  only,  because  I  want  to  sit 
with  Laura." 

"  I  thank  you ;  thank  you  !  " 

"  How  did  you  get  home  last  night  ?  "  I  asked,  on  the 
promised  meeting.  She  was  sitting  at  the  window, 
where  the  light  was  strongest,  for  her  delicate  work  was 
in  her  hand ;  and  as  the  beams  of  a  paler  sun  came  in 
upon  her,  I  thought  I  had  seen  something  like  her  some- 
where before  in  a  picture  as  it  were  framed  in  a  dusky 
comer,  but  itself  making  for  its  own  loveliness  a  shrine 
of  light.  Had  I  travelled  among  studios  and  galleries,  I 
must  have  been  struck  by  her  likeness  to  those  rich-hued 
but  fairest  ideals  of  the  sacred  schools  of  painting  which 
have  consecrated  the  old  masters  as  worshippers  of  the 
highest  in  woman ;  but  I  had  never  seen  anything  of  the 
kind  except  in  cold  prints.  That  strange  reminiscence 
of  what  we  never  have  really  seen,  in  what  we  at  present 
behold,  appertains  to  a  certain  temperament  only,  — that 
temperament  in  which  the  ideal  notion  is  so  definite 
that  all  the  realities  the  least  approximating  thereunto 
strike  as  its  semblances,  and  all  that  it  finds  beautiful  it 
compares  so  as  to  combine  with  the  beautiful  itself.  I 
do  not  suppose  I  had  this  consciousness  that  afternoon, 
but  I  perfectly  remember  saying,  before  Clara  rose  to 
welcome  me  as  she  always  did,  "  You  look  exacdy  like  a 
picture.'' 

"Do  I ?  But  no  people  in  pictures  are  made  at  work. 
Oh,  it  is  very  unpicturesque  !  "  and  she  smiled. 


LONG   QUESTIONS,  SHORT  ANSWERS.       1 23 

"  I  am  not  going  to  sing,  Miss  Benette ;  there  is  no 
time  in  just  half  an  hour." 

"  I  must  practise,  Master  Auchester ;  I  cannot  afford 
to  lose  my  half  hours  and  half  hours." 

"  But  I  want  to  ask  you  some  questions.  Now  do 
answer  me,  please." 

"  You  shall  make  long  questions,  then,  and  I  short 
answers." 

She  began  to  sing  her  florid  exercises,  a  paper  of 
which  lay  open  upon  the  desk,  in  Davy's  hand. 

"  Well,  first  I  want  to  know  why  are  they  unkind  to 
Laura,  and  what  they  do  to  her  which  is  unkind." 

"  It  would  not  be  unkind  if  Laura  were  altogether  like 
her  father,  as  she  is  in  some  respects,  because  then  she 
would  have  no  feehng ;  but  she  has  the  feeling  of  which 
her  mother  died." 

"  That  is  a  longer  answer  than  I  expected,  but  not 
half  enough ;  I  want  to  know  so  much  more.  How 
pretty  your  hands  are,  —  so  pink  !  "  I  remarked  admir- 
ingly, as  I  watched  the  dimples  in  them,  and  the  infan- 
tinely  rounded  fingers,  as  they  spread  so  softly  amidst 
the  delicate  cambric. 

"  So  are  yours  very  pretty  hands,  Master  Auchester, 
and  they  are  very  white  too.  But  never  mind  the  hands 
now.  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  Laura,  because  if 
you  become  a  great  musician  you  will  perhaps  be  able 
to  do  her  a  kindness." 

"  What  sort  of  kindness  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  say,  my  thoughts  do  not  tell  me  ;  but 
any  kindness  is  great  to  her.  She  has  a  clever  father, 
but  he  has  no  more  heart  than  this  needle,  though  he  is 
as  sharp  and  has  as  clear  an  eye.  He  made  his  poor 
little  wife  dance  even  when  she  was  ill ;  but  that  was  be- 
fore I  knew  Laura.     When  I  came  here  from  London 


124  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

with  Mr.  Davy,  I  knew  nobody ;  but  one  evening  I  was 
singing  and  working  while  Thone'  (that  is  my  nurse)  was 
gone  out  to  buy  me  food,  when  I  suddenly  heard  a  great 
cr)dng  in  the  street.  I  went  downstairs  and  opened  the 
door,  and  there  I  found  a  little  girl,  with  no  bonnet  upon 
her  head,  who  wore  a  gay  frock  all  covered  with  artificial 
flowers.  My  nurse  was  there  too.  Thone'  can't  talk 
much  English,  but  she  said  to  me,  '  Make  her  speak.  I 
found  her  sitting  down  in  the  gutter,  all  bathed  in  tears.' 

"  Then  I  said,  in  my  Enghsh,  *  Do  tell  me  why  you 
were  in  the  streets,  pretty  one,  and  why  you  wear  these 
fine  clothes  in  the  mud.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  cannot  dance,'  she  cried,  and  sobbed  ;  '  my 
feet  are  stiff  with  standing  all  this  morning,  and  if  I  try 
to  begin  before  those  lamps  on  that  slippery  floor,  I  shall 
tumble  down.' 

"  '  You  have  run  away  from  the  theatre,'  I  said ;  and 
then  I  took  her  upstairs  in  my  arms  (for  she  was  very 
light  and  small),  and  gave  her  some  warm  milk.  Then, 
when  she  was  hushed,  I  said, '  Were  you  to  dance,  then  ? 
It  is  very  pretty  to  dance  :  why  were  you  frightened  ? ' 

"  '■  I  was  so  tired.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  go  to  my 
mamma  !  ' 

" '  I  asked  her  where  she  was  ;  and  she  began  to  shake 
her  head  and  to  tell  me  her  mamma  was  dead.  But  in 
the  midst  there  was  a  great  knocking  at  the  door  down- 
stairs. Laura  was  dreadfully  alarmed,  and  screamed ; 
and  while  she  was  screaming,  in  came  a  great  man,  his 
face  all  bedecked  with  paint.  I  could  not  speak  to  him, 
he  would  not  hear  me,  nor  could  we  save  the  child  then ; 
for  he  snatched  her  up  (all  on  the  floor  as  she  was),  and 
carried  her  downstairs  in  his  arms.  He  was  very  big, 
certainly,  and  had  a  fierce  look,  but  did  not  hurt  her ; 
and  as  I  ran  after  him,  and  Thone  after  me,  we  saw  him 


LAURA'S  FATHER.  I  25 

put  her  into  a  close  coach  and  get  in  after  her,  and 
then  they  drove  away.  I  was  very  miserable  that  night, 
for  I  could  not  do  anything  for  the  poor  child ;  but  I 
went  the  first  thing  the  next  morning  to  the  theatre  that 
had  been  open  the  evening  before.  Thone  was  with 
me,  and  took  care  of  me  in  that  wild  place.  At  last  I 
made  out  who  the  httle  dancing-girl  was  and  where  she 
hved,  and  then  I  wTnt  to  that  house.  Oh,  Master 
Auchester !  I  thought  my  house  so  still,  so  happy  after 
it.  It  was  full  of  noise  and  smells,  and  had  a  look 
that  makes  me  ver)'  low.  —  a  look  of  discomfort  all 
about.  I  said  I  wanted  the  manager,  and  half  a  dozen 
smart,  dirty  people  would  have  shown  me  the  way ;  but 
I  said,  '  Only  one,  if  you  please.' 

"  Then  some  young  man  conducted  me  upstairs  into 
a  greasy  drawing-room.  Thone  did  not  like  my  stapng, 
but  I  would  stay,  although  I  did  not  once  sit  dovna. 
The  carpet  was  gay,  and  there  were  muslin  curtains ; 
but  you,  Master  Auchester,  could  not  have  breathed 
there.  I  felt  ready  to  cry ;  but  that  would  not  have 
helped  me,  so  I  looked  at  the  sky  out  of  the  window  till 
I  heard  some  one  coming  in.  It  was  the  great  man. 
He  was  selfish-looking  and  vulgar,  but  very  polite  to  me, 
and  wanted  me  to  sit  upon  his  sofa.  ^No,'  I  said,  '  I 
am  come  to  speak  about  the  httle  girl  who  came  to  my 
house  last  night,  and  whom  I  was  caring  for  when  you 
fetched  her  away.  And  I  want  to  know  why  she  was 
so  afraid  to  dance,  and  so  afraid  of  you?' 

''  The  man  looked  ready  to  eat  me,  but  Thone  (who 
is  a  sort  of  g}-psy.  Master  Auchester)  kept  him  down  with 
her  grand  looks,  and  he  turned  off  into  a  laugh,  —  '  I 
suppose  I  may  do  as  I  please  with  my  owm  child ! ' 

'•'No,  sir  I'  I  said,  'not  if  you  are  an  unnatural 
father,  for  in  this  good  land  the  law  will  protect  her; 


126  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

and  if  you  do  not  promise  to  treat  her  well,  I  am  going 
to  the  magistrate  about  it.  I  suppose  she  has  no  mother ; 
now,  I  have  none  myself,  and  I  never  see  anybody  ill- 
treated  who  has  no  mother  without  trying  to  get  them 
righted.' 

"  '  You  are  a  fine  young  lady  to  talk  to  me  so.  Why, 
you  are  a  child  yourself !  Who  said  I  was  unkind  to  my 
Laura  ?  She  must  get  her  living,  and  she  can't  do  bet- 
ter than  dance,  as  her  mother  danced  before  her.  I 
will  send  for  her,  and  you  shall  hear  what  she  will  say 
for  herself  this  morning.' 

"  He  shouted  out  upon  the  landing,  and  presendy 
the  child  came  down.  I  was  surprised  to  see  that 
she  looked  happy,  though  very  tired.  I  said,  '  Are  you 
better  to-day  ? ' 

" '  It  was  very  nice,'  she  answered,  '  and  they  gave 
me  such  pretty  flowers  ! ' 

'•  Then  we  talked  a  long  time.  I  shall  tire  you,  Master 
Auchester,  if  I  tell  you  all ;  but  I  found  myself  not  know- 
ing what  to  do,  for  though  the  child  had  been  made  to 
go  through  a  great  deal  of  suffering  —  almost  all  dancers 
must  —  yet  she  did  so  love  the  art  that  it  was  useless  to 
try  and  coax  her  out  of  her  services  for  it.  All  I  could 
do,  then,  was  to  entreat  her  papa  not  to  be  severe  with 
her,  if  even  he  was  obliged  to  be  strict ;  and  then  (for 
he  had  told  me  she  danced  the  night  before,  the  first 
time  in  pubhc)  I  added  to  herself,  '  You  must  try  to 
deserve  the  flowers  they  give  you,  and  dance  your  very 
best  And  if  you  practise  well  when  you  are  learnmg  in 
the  mornings,  it  will  become  so  easy  that  you  will  not 
find  it  any  pain  at  all,  and  very  Httle  fatigue.' 

"  Her  papa,  I  could  see,  was  not  ill-humored,  but  very 
selfish,  and  would  make  the  most  of  his  clever  little 
daughter  ;  so  I  would  not  stay  any  longer,  lest  he  should 


A   SELFISH  FATHER.  12/ 

forget  what  I  had  said.  He  was  rather  more  polite 
again  before  I  went  away,  and  in  a  day  or  two  I  sent 
Thone  with  a  note  to  Laura,  in  which  I  asked  her  to  tea 
—  and,  for  a  wonder,  she  came.  I  am  tiring  you, 
Master  Auchester  ? " 

"  Oh  !  do  please,  for  pity's  sake,  go  on,  Miss  Benette  !  " 

"  Well,  when  she  came  with  Thone,  she  was  dressed 
much  as  she  dresses  at  the  class,  and  I  have  not  been 
able  yet  to  persuade  her  to  leave  off  that  ugly  neck- 
lace. She  talked  to  me  a  great  deal.  She  was  not  made 
to  suffer  until  after  her  mother's  death,  for  her  mother 
was  so  tender  of  her  that  she  would  allow  no  one  to 
touch  her  but  herself.  She  taught  her  to  dance,  though  ; 
and  little  Laura  told  me  so  innocently  how  she  used  to 
practise  by  the  side  of  her  mother's  sick  bed,  for  she  lay 
ill  for  many  months.  She  had  caught  a  cold  —  as  Laura 
did  the  other  night  —  after  a  great  dance,  in  which  she 
grew  very  warm ;  and  at  last  she  died  of  consumption. 
She  had  brought  her  husband  a  good  deal  of  money, 
and  he  determined  to  make  the  most  of  it  as  soon  as 
she  was  dead ;  for  he  brought  Laura  on  very  fast  by 
teaching  her  all  day,  and  torturing  her  too,  though  I 
really  beUeve  he  thought  it  was  necessary." 

"Miss  Benette!" 

"  Yes  \  for  such  persons  as  he  have  not  sensations 
fine  enough  to  let  them  understand  how  some  can  be 
made  to  suffer  delicately." 

"  Oh,  go  on  !  " 

"Well,  she  was  just  ready  to  be  brought  out  in  a  kind 
of  fairy  ballet,  in  which  children  are  required,  the  night 
the  theatre  opened  this  season." 

"  And  it  was  then  she  ran  away?  " 

"  Yes ;  when  she  got  into  the  theatre  she  took  fright." 

"Did  she  dance  that  night,  after  all?" 


128  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  and  she  liked  it  very  much,  for  she  is  very 
excitable  and  very  fond  of  praise.  Besides,  she  has  a 
very  bright  soul,  and  she  was  pleased  with  the  sparkling 
scenery.  As  she  described  it,  '  It  was  all  roses,  and  crys- 
tal, and  beautiful  music  going  round  and  round.'  She 
is  a  sweet  little  child  when  you  really  know  her,  and  as 
innocent  as  the  two  little  daughters  of  the  clergyman  at 
St.  Anthony's  who  go  every  day  past  hand  in  hand,  with 
their  white  foreheads  and  blue  eyes,  and  whose  mamma 
sleeps  by  Laura's,  in  the  same  churchyard.  Well,  she 
came  to  me  several  times,  and  at  last  I  persuaded  her 
papa  to  let  her  drink  tea  with  me,  and  it  saves  him 
trouble,  so  he  is  very  glad  she  should.  It  is  the  end  of 
the  season  now,  so  I  hope  he  will  give  her  a  real 
holiday,  and  she  will  get  quite  strong." 

"  He  fetches  her,  then,  to  go  to  the  theatre  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  is  not  any  trouble  to  him,  for  he  calls  on  an- 
other person  in  this  lane,  and  they  all  go  together." 

"  Do  you  know  that  person  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  !  and  Laura  does  not  like  her.  But  as  Laura 
is  obliged  to  see  a  good  deal  of  low  people,  I  like  her 
sometimes  to  see  high  people,  that  her  higher  nature 
may  not  want  food." 

"  I  understand.  Was  that  the  reason  she  joined  the 
class?" 

"  I  persuaded  her  papa  to  allow  her,  by  assuring  him  it 
would  improve  her  voice  for  singing  in  the  chorus ;  and 
now  he  comes  himself,  though  I  rather  suspect  it  is  be- 
cause he  likes  to  know  all  that  is  going  on  in  the  town." 

"  She  goes  home  with  him,  then?  " 

"  Yes.  The  reason  you  saw  Laura  in  her  dancing- 
dress  was  that  you  might  like  her.  I  bade  her  bring  it, 
and  put  it  on  her  myself.  I  did  not  tell  her  why,  but  I 
wished  vou  to  see  her  too." 


''THEN  I  SHALL   BE  ALL  BEAUTIFUL:'     129 

'*  But  why  did  you  wish  me  to  like  her,  Miss  Benette  ?  " 

"  As  I  told  you  before,  —  that  you  may  be  kind  to  her  ; 
and  also  that  she  might  see  some  one  very  gentle,  I 
wished  her  to  be  here  with  you." 

"Am  I  gentle,  do  you  consider?" 

"  I  think  you  are  a  young  gentleman,"  she  answered, 
with  her  sweet  gravity. 

"  But  I  do  not  see  how  it  could  do  her  good  exactly 
to  see  gentle  persons." 

"  Do  not  you  ?  I  do  ;  I  believe  she  will  never  become 
ungentle  by  living  with  ungentle  persons,  as  she  does 
and  must,  if  she  once  knows  what  gentle  persons  are. 
I  may  be  all  wrong,  but  this  is  what  I  believe ;  and  when 
Laura  grows  up,  I  shall  find  out  whether  I  am  right. 
Oh !  it  is  good  to  love  the  beautiful ;  and  if  we  once 
really  love  it,  we  can  surely  not  do  harm." 

"  Miss  Benette  !  "  I  exclaimed  suddenly,  —  I  really 
could  not  help  it,  —  "I  think  you  are  an  angel." 

She  raised  her  blue  eyes  from  the  shadowy  length  of 
their  lashes,  and  fixed  them  upon  the  dim  gray  autumn 
heaven,  then  without  a  smile  ;  but  her  bright  face  shining 
even  with  the  light  of  which  smiles  are  born,  she  replied 
in  the  words  of  Mignon,  but  with  how  apart  a  signifi- 
cance !  ''I  wish  I  were  one  !  "  then  going  on,  "  because 
then  I  shall  be  all  beautiful  without  and  wdthin  me.  But 
yet,  no  !  I  would  not  be  an  angel,  for  I  could  not  then 
sing  in  our  class  ! " 

I  laughed  out,  with  the  most  perfect  sympathy  in  her 
sentiment;  and  then  she  laughed,  and  looked  at  me 
exactly  as  an  infant  does  in  mirthful  play. 

"Now,  Miss  Benette,  one  more  question.  Mr.  Davy 
told  me  the  other  night  that  you  had  done  him  good. 
What  did  he  mean  ?  " 

"I  do  not  think  I  can  tell  you  what  I  believe  he 
VOL.  I.  —  9 


130  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

meant,  because  you  might  mention  it  to  liim ;  and  if  he 
did  not  mean  that,  he  would  think  me  silly,  and  I  would 
not  seem  silly  to  him." 

'^  Now,  do  pray  tell  me  !  Do  you  suppose  I  can  go 
home  unless  you  will  ?  You  have  made  me  so  dreadfully 
curious.  I  should  not  think  of  telling  him  you  had  told 
me.  Now,  what  did  you  do  for  him  that  made  him  say 
so?" 

She  replied,  with  an  innocence  the  sister  of  which  I 
have  never  seen  through  all  my  dreams  of  woman,  — 

"  Mr.  Davy  was  so  condescending  as  to  ask  me  one 
day  whether  I  would  be  his  wife,  —  sometime  when  I  am 
grown  up.  And  I  said,  No.  I  think  that  was  the  good 
I  did  him." 

I  shall  never  forget  the  peculiar  starded  sensation  that 
struck  through  me.  I  had  never  entertained  such  a  no- 
tion, or  any  notion  of  the  kind  about  anybody;  and 
about  her  it  was  indeed  new,  and  to  me  almost  an  awe. 

"  The  good  you  did  him,  Miss  Benette  !  "  I  cried  in 
such  a  scared  tone  that  she  dropped  her  work  into  her 
lap.  "  I  should  have  thought  it  would  have  done  him 
more  good  if  you  had  said,  Yes." 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  think  so,"  she  repHed,  in  a 
tone  like  a  confiding  child's  to  a  superior  in  age,  —  far 
from  like  an  elder's  to  one  so  young  as  myself,  —  "  but  I 
know  better,  Master  Auchester.  It  was  the  only  thing 
I  could  do  to  show  my  gratitude." 

"  Were  you  sorry  to  say  No,  Miss  Benette  ?  " 

"  No ;  very  glad  and  very  pleased." 

"  But  it  is  rather  odd.  I  should  have  thought  you 
would  have  liked  to  say,  Yes.  You  do  not  love  him, 
then?" 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  do,  well.  But  I  do  not  wish  to  belong  to 
him,  nor  to  any  one,  —  only  to  music  now ;  and  besides, 


''KNOWN  OF  MUSIC r  131 

I  should  not  have  had  his  love.  He  wished  to  marry 
me  that  he  might  take  care  of  me.  But  when  he  said 
so,  I  answered,  '  Sir,  I  can  take  care  of  myself.'  " 

"But,  Miss  Benette,  how  much  should  one  love,  and 
how,  then,  if  one  is  to  marry?  For  I  do  not  think  all 
people  marry  for  love  !  " 

"  You  are  not  old  enough  to  understand,  and  I  am 
not  old  enough  to  tell  you,"  she  said  sweetly,  with  her 
eyes  upon  her  work  as  usual,  "  nor  do  I  wish  to  know. 
If  some  people  marry  not  for  love,  what  is  that  to  me  ? 
I  am  not  even  sorry  for  them,  —  not  so  sorry  as  I  am  for 
those  who  know  not  music,  and  whom  music  does  not 
know." 

"  Oh  !  they  are  worse  off !  "  I  involuntarily  exclaime-d. 
"  Do  you  think  I  am  '  known  of  music,'  Miss  Benette  ?  " 

"  I  daresay  \  for  you  love  it,  and  ^\ill  serve  it.  I 
cannot  tell  further,  I  am  not  wise.  Would  you  like  to 
have  your  fortune  told?" 

"  Miss  Benette  !  what  do  you  mean  ?  You  cannot  tell 
fortunes !  " 

"  But  Thone  can.  She  is  a  g>'psy,  —  a  real  gypsy. 
Master  Auchester,  though  she  was  naughty,  and  married 
out  of  her  tribe." 

"What  tribe?" 

"  Hush  ! "  said  Clara,  whisperingly ;  "  she  is  in  my 
other  room  at  work,  and  she  would  be  wroth  if  she 
thought  I  was  talking  about  her." 

"  But  you  said  she  cannot  speak  English." 

"  Yes ;  but  she  always  has  a  feeling  when  I  am  speak- 
ing about  her.  Such  people  have,  —  their  sympathies 
are  so  strong." 

Now,  it  happened  we  had  often  talked  over  gypsies 
and  their  pretensions  in  our  house,  and  various  had  been 
the  utterances  of  our  circle.     Lydia  doomed  them  all  as 


132  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

imposters  ;  my  mother,  who  had  but  an  ideal  notion  of 
them,  considered,  as  many  do,  that  they  somehow  per- 
tained to  Israel.  Clo  presumed  they  were  Egyptian,  be- 
cause of  their  contour  and  their  skill  in  pottery,  —  though, 
by  the  way,  she  had  never  read  upon  the  subject,  as  she 
always  averred.  But  Millicent  was  sufficient  for  me  at 
once,  when  she  had  said  one  day,  "  At  least  they  are  a 
distinct  race,  and  possess  in  an  eminent  degree  the  faculty 
of  enforcing  faith  in  the  supernatural  by  the  exercise 
of  physical  and  spiritual  gifts  that  only  act  upon  the 
marvellous." 

I  always  understood  Millicent,  whatever  she  said,  and 
I  had  often  talked  with  her  about  them.  I  rather  sus- 
pect she  believed  them  in  her  heart  to  be  Chaldean. 
I  must  confess,  notwithstanding,  that  I  was  rather  ner- 
vous when  Miss  Benette  announced,  with  such  child- 
like assurance,  her  intuitive  credence  in  their  especial 
ability  to  discern  and  decipher  destiny. 

I  said,  "  Do  you  think  she  can,  then  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  is  vulgar  to  say  '  tell  fortunes,'  but  what  I 
mean  is,  that  she  could  tell,  by  casting  her  eyes  over 
you,  and  looking  into  your  eyes,  and  examining  your 
brow,  what  kind  of  life  you  are  most  fit  for,  and  what 
you  would  make  out  of  it." 

"  Oh,  how  I  should  like  her  to  tell  me  !  " 

"  She  shall,  then,  if  she  may  come  in.  But  your  half- 
hour  has  passed." 

"  Oh,  do  just  let  me  stay  a  httle  !  " 

"  You  shall,  of  course,  if  you  please,  sir ;  only  do  not 
feel  obliged." 

She  arose  and  walked  out  of  the  room,  closing  the 
door.  I  could  catch  her  tones  through  the  wall,  and 
she  returned  in  less  than  a  minute.  There  was  some- 
thing startling,  almost  to  appall,  in  the  countenance  of 


THE   GYPSY.  133 

the  companion  she  ushered,  coming  close  behind  her. 
I  can  say  that  that  countenance  was  all  eye,  —  a  vivid 
and  burning  intelligence  concentred  in  orbs  whose  dark- 
ness was  really  light,  flashing  from  thence  over  every 
feature.  Thone'  was  neither  a  gaunt  nor  a  great  wo- 
man, though  tall ;  her  hands  were  beautifully  small  and 
slender,  and  though  she  was  as  brunette  as  her  eye  was 
dark,  she  was  clear  as  that  darkness  was  itself  light. 
The  white  cap  she  wore  contrasted  strangely  with  that 
rich  hue,  like  sun-gilt  bronze.  She  was  old,  but  mod- 
elled like  a  statue,  and  her  lips  were  keen,  severe,  and 
something  scornful.  It  was  amazing  to  me  to  see  how 
easily  Miss  Benette  looked  and  worked  before  this 
prodigy;  I  was  speechless.  Thone  took  my  hand  in 
hers,  and  feeHng  I  trembled,  she  said  some  quick  words 
to  Clara  in  a  species  of  Low  German,  whose  accent  I 
could  not  understand,  and  Clara  replied  in  the  same. 
I  would  have  withdrawn  my  hand,  for  I  was  beginning 
to  fear  something  dreadful  in  the  way  of  an  oracle, 
but  Thone  led  me  with  irrepressible  authority'  to  the 
window.  Once  there,  she  fastened  upon  me  an  almost 
feeling  glance,  and  having  scanned  me  a  while,  drew  out 
all  my  fingers  one  by  one  with  a  pressure  that  cracked 
every  sinew  of  my  hand  and  arm.  At  last  she  looked 
into  my  palm,  but  made  no  muttering,  and  did  not 
appear  trying  to  make  out  anything  but  the  streaks 
and  texture  of  the  skin.  It  could  not  have  been  ten 
minutes  that  had  passed  when  she  let  fall  my  hand,  and 
addressing  Clara  in  a  curt,  still  manner,  without  smile 
or  comment,  uttered  in  a  voice  whose  echoes  haunt 
me  still,  —  for  the  words  were  rare  as  music,  —  "  Ton- 
kunst  und  Arzenei."  ^ 

I  knew  enough  of  German  to  interpret  these,  at  all 

1  Music  and  medicine. 


134  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

events,  and  as  I  stood  they  passed  into  my  being  by 
conviction,  they  being  indeed  truth. 

Clara  approached  me.  "Are  you  satisfied?  Music 
is  medicine,  though,  I  think;  do  not  you?  " 

She  smiled  with  sweet  mischief. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Benette,  thank  you  a  thousand  times  !  for 
whether  it  is  to  be  true  or  not,  I  think  it  is  a  very  good 
fortune  to  be  told.     Has  she  told  you  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes,  often  ;  at  least  as  much  as  she  told  you  about 
yourself,  she  has  revealed  to  me." 

''  Can  she  tell  all  people  their  fortunes?" 

"  I  will  ask  her." 

She  turned  to  our  bright  Fate  and  spoke.  On  re- 
ceiving a  short,  low  reply,  as  Thone'  left  the  room,  she 
again  addressed  me.  ''  She  says,  '  I  cannot  prophesy 
for  the  pure  English,  if  there  be  any,  because  the  letters 
of  their  characters  are  not  distinct.  All  I  know  in  all, 
is  how  much  there  is  of  ours  in  each.'  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  she  means." 

"  No  more  do  I." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Benette,  you  do  !  "  For  her  arch  smile 
fluttered  over  her  lips. 

"  So  I  do ;  but.  Master  Auchester,  it  is  getting  very 
late,  —  you  must  go,  unless  I  may  give  you  some  tea. 
And  your  mother  would  like  you  to  be  home.  There- 
fore, go  now." 

I  wanted  to  shake  hands  with  her,  but  she  made  no 
show  of  willingness,  so  I  did  not  dare,  and  instantly  I 
departed.  What  a  wonderful  spell  it  was  that  bound 
me  to  the  dull  lane  at  the  end  of  the  town  !  Certainly 
it  is  out  of  English  life  in  England  one  must  go  for  the 
mysteries  and  realities  of  existence.  I  was  just  in  time 
for  our  tea.  As  I  walked  into  the  parlor  the  fire  shone, 
and  so  did  the  kettle,  singing  to  itself;  for  in  our  Eng- 


/  ABJURE  FROCKS.  1 35 

lish  life  we  eschewed  urns.  Clo  was  reading,  Lydia  at 
the  board,  Milhcent  was  cutting  great  shces  of  home- 
made bread.  I  thought  to  myself,  "  How  differently 
we  all  manage  here  !  If  Millicent  did  but  dare,  I  know 
she  would  behave  and  talk  like  Miss  Benette." 

"  How  is  the  young  lady  this  afternoon,  Charles  ?  I 
wish  you  to  ask  her  to  come  and  drink  tea  with  us  on 
Sunday  after  service." 

"  Yes,  mother;  is  Mr.  Davy  coming?  " 

"  He  promised  the  other  night." 

''And  Charles,"  added  Clo,  "do  not  forget  that  you 
must  go  with  me  to-morrow  and  be  measured  for  a 
jacket." 

"  I  am  to  wear  one  at  last,  then?  " 

"  Yes,  for  now  you  are  really  growing  too  tall  for 
frocks." 

I  was  very  glad ;  for  I  abjured  those  braided  gar- 
ments, compassing  about  my  very  heels  with  bond- 
age, with  utter  satisfaction.  Still,  I  was  amused.  "  I 
suppose  it  is  for  this  party  I  am  going  to,"  thought  I. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  next  day  at  class,  Laura's  place  still  being 
empty,  I  watched  eagerly  for  Clara.  The  people 
were  pouring  in  at  the  door,  and  I,  knowing  their  faces, 
could  not  but  feel  how  unlike  she  was  to  them  all,  when 
in  the  way  she  appeared,  so  bright  in  her  dark  dress, 
with  her  cloudless  forehead  and  air  of  ecstatic  inno- 
cence.    She  spoke  to  me  to-day. 

"  How  are  you?  " 

*'  Quite  well ;  and  you,  Miss  Benette  ?  But  I  want 
you  to  listen  to  me  presently ;  seriously,  I  have  some- 
thing to  say." 

"  I  '11  wait,"  and  she  took  her  seat. 

Davy  extolled  our  anthem,  and  did  not  stop  us  once, 
which  fact  was  unprecedented.  We  all  applauded  him 
when  he  praised  us,  at  which  he  laughed,  but  was  evi- 
dently much  pleased.  In  fact,  he  had  already  made  for 
himself  a  name  and  fame  in  the  town,  and  the  antago- 
nistic jealousy  of  the  resident  professors  could  not  cope 
therewith,  without  being  worsted ;  they  had  given  him 
up,  and  now  let  him  alone,  —  thus  his  sensitive  nature 
was  less  attacked,  and  his  energy  had  livelier  play. 
When  the  class  divided.  Miss  Benette  looked  round  at 
me  :  "I  am  at  your  ser\ace,  Master  Au Chester." 

I  gave  her  my  mother's  message.  She  was  sweet  and 
calm  as  ever,  but  still  grave,  and  she  said,  "  I  am  very 
grateful  to  your  mother,  and  to  those  young  ladies  your 
sisters  ;  but  I  never  do  go  anywhere  out  to  tea." 


A    COXVERSATION   WITH  MI  LUCENT.       I 


0/ 


"  But,  Miss  Benette,  you  are  going  to  that  party  at  tiie 
Redferns'." 

'•  I  am  going  to  sing  there,  —  that  is  different.  It  is 
very  hard  to  me  not  to  come,  but  I  must  not,  because  I 
have  laid  it  upon  myself  to  do  nothing  but  study  until 
I  come  out.  Because,  you  see,  if  I  make  friends  now, 
I  might  lose  them  then,  for  they  might  not  hke  to  know 
me." 

"  Miss  Benette  !  "  —  I  stamped  my  foot  —  ''  how  dare 
you  say  so  ?    We  should  always  be  proud  to  know  you."* 

"  I  cannot  tell  that,"  she  retorted  ;  "  it  might  be,  or  it 
might  not.  Perhaps  you  will  think  I  am  right  one  day. 
I  should  like  to  have  come,"  she  persisted  bewitchingly. 
But  I  was  inwardly  hurt,  and  I  daresay  she  thought  me 
outwardly  sulky,  for  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  wish  her 
good-evening  like  a  "young  gentleman,"  as  she  had 
called  me. 

I  said  to  Millicent,  when  we  were  walking  the  next 
morning,  that  I  had  had  my  fortune  told.  We  had  a 
long  conversation.  I  saw  she  was  very  anxious  to  dis- 
abuse me  of  the  behef  that  I  must  necessarily  be  what, 
in  myself,  I  had  always  held  myself  ready  to  become, 
and  I  laughed  her  quite  to  scorn. 

"  But,  Charies,"  she  remonstrated,  "  if  this  is  to 
be,  you  must  be  educated  with  a  direct  view  to  those 
purposes." 

'•'  So  I  shall  be  ;  but  when  she  said  medicine  she  did 
not  mean  I  should  be  an  apothecar}-,  MilHcent,"  and  I 
laughed  the  more. 

"  No,  I  rather  think  it  is  music  you  ought  to  profess. 
But  in  that  case  you  will  require  high  as  well  as  pro- 
found instruction." 

"  I  mean  to  profess  an  instrument,  and  I  mean  to  go 
to  German V  and  learn  all  about  it." 


138  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

' '  My  dear  boy  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  do,  and  I  know  I  shall ;  but  as  I  have  not 
chosen  my  instrument  yet,  I  shall  wait." 

Millicent  herself  laughed  heartily  at  this.  "  Would 
you  like  to  learn  the  horn,  Charles?  or  the  flute?  or 
perhaps  that  new  instrument,  the  ophicleide  ? '  And  so 
the  subject  dwindled  into  a  joke  for  that  while.  I  then 
told  her  in  strict  confidence  about  Laura.  I  scarcely 
ever  saw  her  so  much  excited  to  interest ;  she  evidently 
almost  thought  Clara  herself  angehc,  and  to  my  delight 
she  at  length  promised  to  call  with  me  upon  her,  if  I 
would  ascertain  that  it  would  be  convenient.  I  shall 
never  forget,  too,  that  Millicent  begged  for  me  from  my 
mother  some  baked  apples,  some  delicate  spiced  jelly, 
and  some  of  her  privately  concocted  lozenges,  for 
Laura.  I  do  think  my  mother  would  have  liked  to  dis- 
pense these  last  a  la  largesse  among  the  populace.  I 
carried  these  treasures  in  a  small  basket  to  Miss  Benette, 
and  saw  her  just  long  enough  to  receive  her  assurance 
that  she  should  be  so  pleased  if  my  sister  would  come 
and  look  at  her  work. 

Sweet  child  !  as  indeed  she  was  by  the  right  of  Ge- 
nius (who,  if  Eros  be  immortal  youth,  hath  alone  im- 
mortal fancy), —  she  had  laid  every  piece  of  her  beauteous 
work,  every  scrap  of  net  or  cambric,  down  to  that  very 
last  handkerchief,  upon  the  table,  which  she  had  covered 
with  a  crimson  shawl,  doubtless  some  relic  of  her  luxu- 
rious mother  conserved  for  her.  And  with  the  instinct 
of  that  ideal  she  certainly  created  in  her  life,  she  had  in- 
terspersed the  lovely  manufactures  with  little  bunches  of 
wild-flowers  and  green,  and  a  few  berries  of  the  wild  rose- 
tree,  ripe  and  red. 

I  was  enchanted.  I  was  proud  beyond  measure  to 
introduce   to    her  my   sister;    proud    of    them    both. 


THE  PRESEXT  OF  A    VEIL.  1 39 

Millicent  was  astonished,  amazed ;  I  could  see  she  was 
quite  puzzled  ^^4th  pleasure,  but  more  than  all  she  seemed 
lost  in  watching  Clara's  calm,  cloudless  face. 

"  Which  of  the  pieces  do  you  like  best?  "  asked  Miss 
Benette  at  last,  after  we  had  fully  examined  all. 

''  Oh  I  it  is  really  impossible  to  say ;  but  if  I  could  pre- 
fer, I  should  confess,  perhaps,  that  this  is  the  most  ex- 
quisitely imagined ;  "  and  i^Iillicent  pointed  to  a  veil  of 
thin  white  net,  with  the  border  worked  in  the  most  deli- 
cate shades  of  green  floss  silk,  a  perfect  wreath  of  myrde- 
leaves  ;  and  the  white  flowers  seemed  to  tremble  amidst 
that  shadowy  garland.  I  never  saw  anything  to  approach 
them  ;  they  were  far  more  natural  than  any  paintings. 

Miss  Benette  took  this  veil  up  in  her  Uttle  pmk  hands, 
and  folding  it  very  small,  and  wrapping  it  in  silver  paper, 
presented  it  to  ^Millicent,  saying,  in  a  child-like  but  most 
touching  manner,  ''You  must  take  it,  then,  that  you 
may  not  think  I  am  ungrateful ;  and  I  am  so  glad  you 
chose  that." 

As  Millicent  said,  it  would  have  been  impossible  to 
have  refused  her  anything.  I  quite  longed  to  cry,  and 
the  tears  stood  in  my  tender-hearted  sister's  eyes  ;  but 
Clara  seemed  entirely  unconscious  she  had  done  any- 
thing touching  or  pretty  or  complete. 

If  I  go  on  in  this  way,  raking  the  embers  of  reminis- 
cence into  rosy  flames,  I  shall  never  emancipate  myself 
into  the  second  great  phase  of  my  existence.  It  is  posi- 
tively necessary  that  I  should  not  revert  to  that  veil  at 
present,  or  I  should  have  to  dehneate  astonishment  and 
admiration  that  had  no  end. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

AT  last  the  day  came,  and  having  excited  myself 
the  whole  morning  about  the  Redferns,  I  left  off 
thinking  of  them,  and  returned  to  myself.  Although  it 
portends  little,  I  may  transmit  to  posterity  the  fact  that 
my  new  clothes  came  home  at  half-past  three,  and  my 
mother  beheld  me  arrayed  in  them  at  five.  Davy  had 
all  our  parts  and  the  songs  of  Miss  Benette,  for  she  was 
to  sing  alone  if  requested  to  do  so,  and  was  to  be  ready, 
when  I  should  call,  to  accompany  me. 

I  was  at  length  pronounced  at  Hberty  to  depart,  —  that 
is,  everybody  had  examined  me  from  head  to  foot.  I 
had  a  sprig  of  the  largest  myrtle  in  the  greenhouse 
quilted  into  the  second  and  third  button-holes,  and  my 
white  gloves  were  placed  in  my  pocket  by  Clo,  after  she 
had  wrapped  them  in  white  paper.  I  privately  carried  a 
sprig  of  myrtle,  too,  for  Miss  Benette  :  it  was  covered 
with  blossom,  and  of  a  very  fine  species.  Thone'  never 
answered  the  door  in  St.  Anthony's  Lane,  but  invariably 
the  same  extraordinary  figure  who  had  startled  me  on 
my  first  visit.  She  stared  so  long  with  the  door  in  her 
hand,  this  time,  that  I  rushed  past  her  and  ran  up  the 
stairs. 

Still  singing  !  Yes,  there  she  was,  in  her  little  bonnet, 
but  from  head  to  foot  enveloped  in  a  monstrous  cloak ; 
I  could  not  see  what  dress  she  wore.  It  was  November 
now,  and  getting  very  dusk  ;  but  we  had  both  expressed 
a  wish  to  walk,  and  Davy  always  preferred  it.     How 


THE  PRIORY.  141 

curious  his  shell  looked  in  the  uncertain  gleam  !  The 
tiny  garden,  as  immaculate  as  ever,  wore  the  paler  shine 
of  asters  and  Michaelmas  daisies ;  and  the  casement 
above,  being  open,  revealed  Davy  watching  for  us 
through  the  twilight.  He  came  down  instantly,  sweep- 
ing the  flower- shrubs  with  his  httle  cloak,  and  having 
locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  into  his  pocket,  he  ac- 
costed us  joyously,  shaking  hands  with  us  both.  But  he 
held  all  the  music  under  his  cloak  too,  nor  would  I  pro- 
ceed until  he  suffered  me  to  carry  it.  We  called  for  Mr. 
Newton,  our  companion  tenor,  who  lived  a  short  way  in 
the  town.  He  met  us  with  white  gloves  ready  put  on, 
and  in  the  bravery  of  a  white  waistcoat,  which  he  exhib- 
ited through  the  opening  of  his  jauntily  hung  great-coat. 
I  left  him  behind  with  Davy,  and  again  found  myself 
with  Miss  Benette.  I  began  to  grow  nervous  when, 
having  passed  the  shops  and  factories  of  that  district,  we 
emerged  upon  the  Lawborough  Road,  lit  by  a  lamp 
placed  here  and  there,  with  dark  night  looming  in  the 
distant  highway.  Again  we  passed  house  after  house 
standing  back  in  masses  of  black  evergreen  ;  but  about 
not  a  few  there  was  silence,  and  no  light  from  within.  At 
length,  forewarned  by  roUing  wheels  that  had  left  us  far 
behind  them,  we  left  the  gate  of  the  Priory  and  walked 
up  to  the  door. 

It  was  a  very  large  house,  and  one  of  the  carriages  had 
just  driven  off  as  Davy  announced  his  name.  One  of 
three  footmen,  lolHng  in  the  portico,  aroused  and  led  us 
to  a  room  at  the  side  of  the  hall,  shutting  us  in.  It  was  a 
handsome  room,  though  small,  furnished  ^vith  a  looking- 
glass  ;  here  were  also  various  coats  and  hats  reposing  upon 
chairs.  I  looked  at  myself  in  the  glass  while  Davy  and 
our  tenor  gave  themselves  the  last  touch,  and  then  left  it 
clear  for  them.     I  perceived  that  Miss  Benette  had  not 


142  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

come  in  with  us,  or  had  stayed  behind.  She  had  taken 
off  her  bonnet  elsewhere,  and  when  we  were  all  ready,  and 
the  door  was  opened,  I  saw  her  once  more,  standing  un- 
derneath the  lamp.  I  could  not  find  out  how  she  was 
dressed ;  her  frock  was,  as  usual,  black  silk,  but  of  the  very 
richest.  She  wore  long  sleeves,  and  drooping  falls  upon 
her  wrists  of  the  finest  black  lace  ;  no  white  against  her 
delicate  throat,  except  that  in  front  she  had  placed  a 
small  but  really  magnificent  row  of  pearls.  Her  silky 
dark  hair  she  wore,  as  usual,  slightly  drooped  on  either 
temple,  but  neither  curled  nor  banded.  I  presented  her 
with  the  myrtle  sprig,  which  she  twisted  into  her  pearls, 
seeming  pleased  with  it ;  but  otherwise  she  was  very  un- 
excited,  though  very  bright.  I  was  not  bright,  but  very 
much  excited ;  I  quite  shook  as  we  walked  up  the  soft 
stair-carpet  side  by  side.  She  looked  at  me  in  evident 
surprise. 

"  You  need  not  be  nervous,  Master  Auchester,  I  as- 
sure you ! " 

"  It  is  going  into  the  drawing-room,  and  being  intro- 
duced, I  hate ;  will  there  be  many  people,  do  you 
think?" 

She  opened  her  blue  eyes  very  wide  when  I  asked  her, 
and  then,  with  a  smile  quite  new  to  me  upon  her  face, 
a  most  enchanting  but  sorely  contemptuous  smile,  she 
said,  — 

"  Oh  !  we  are  not  going  in  there,  —  did  you  think  so  ? 
There  is  a  separate  room  for  us,  in  which  we  are  to  sip 
our  coffee." 

I  was  truly  astonished,  but  I  had  not  time  to  frame 
any  expression ;  we  were  ushered  forward  into  the  room 
she  had  suggested.  It  was  a  sort  of  inner  drawing-room 
apparently,  for  there  were  closed  folding-doors  in  the 
wall  that  opposed  the  entrance.     An  elegant  chandelier 


THE  MUSICIANS.  1 43 

hung  over  a  central  rosewood  table ;  on  this  table  lay 
abundance  of  music,  evidently  sorted  with  some  care. 
Two  tall  wax-candles  upon  the  mantelshelf  were  re- 
flected in  a  tall  mirror  in  tall  silver  sticks ;  the  gold-col- 
ored walls  were  pictureless.  and  crimson  damask  was 
draperied  and  festooned  at  the  shuttered  window.  Crim- 
son silk  chairs  stood  about,  and  so  did  the  people  in  the 
room,  whom  we  began,  Clara  and  I,  to  scrutinize. 
Standing  at  the  table  by  Davy,  and  pointing  with  a  white 
kid  finger  to  the  music  thereon  arranged,  was  an  indi- 
vidual with  the  organs  of  melody  and  of  benevolence 
in  about  equal  development ;  he  was  talking  ver}-  fast.  I 
was  sure  I  knew  his  face,  and  so  I  did.  It  was  the  very 
Mr.  Westley  who  came  upon  us  in  the  corridor  at  the 
festival.  He  taught  the  younger  Miss  Redfems,  of 
whom  there  was  a  swarm ;  and  as  they  grew  they  were 
passed  up  to  the  tuition  of  Monsieur  Mirandos,  a  haugh- 
tily-behaved being,  in  the  middle  of  the  rug,  warming  his 
hands,  gloves  and  all,  and  gazmg  with  the  self-conscious- 
ness of  pianist  primo  then  and  there  present.  It  was 
Clara  who  initiated  me  into  this  fact,  and  also  that  he 
taught  the  competent  elders  of  that  exclusiv'ely  feminine 
flock,  and  that  he  was  the  author  of  a  grand  fantasia 
which  had  neither  predecessor  nor  descendant.  Miss 
Benette  and  I  had  taken  two  chairs  in  the  comer  next 
the  crimson  curtain,  and  nestling  in  there  we  laughed  and 
we  talked. 

"  \Mio  is  the  man  in  a  blue  coat  with  bright  buttons, 
now  looking  up  at  the  chandeher.^"  I  inquired. 

"That  is  a  man  who  has  given  his  name  an  Italian 
termination,  but  I  forget  it.  He  has  a  great  name  for 
getting  up  concerts,  and  I  daresay  he  will  be  a  sort 
of  director  to-night." 

So  it  was,  at  least  so  it  seemed,  for  he  at  last  left  the 


144  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

room,  and  returning  presented  us  each  with  a  sheet  of 
pink-satin  note-paper,  on  which  were  named  and  written 
in  order  the  compositions  awaiting  interpretation.  We 
looked  eagerly  to  see  where  our  first  glee  came. 

"  Oh  !  not  for  a  good  while,  Master  Auchester.  But 
do  look,  here  is  that  Mirandos  going  to  play  his  grande 
fantaisie  sur  des  motifs  militaires.  Oh!  who  is  that 
coming  in  ?  " 

Here  Miss  Benette  interrupted  herself,  and  I,  excited 
by  her  accent,  looked  up  simultaneously. 

As  for  me,  I  knew  directly  who  it  was,  for  the  gentle- 
man entering  at  the  door  so  carelessly,  at  the  same  time 
appearing  to  take  in  the  whole  room  with  his  glance,  had 
a  violin-case  in  his  hand.  I  shall  not  forget  his  manner 
of  being  immediately  at  home,  nodding  to  one  and  an- 
other amiably,  but  with  a  slight  sneer  upon  his  lip,  which 
he  probably  could  not  help,  as  his  mouth  was  very  finely 
cut.  I  felt  certain  it  was  Santonio  ;  and  while  the  gen- 
tleman upon  the  rug  addressed  him  very  excitedly, 
and  received  a  cool  reply,  though  I  could  not  hear  what 
it  was,  for  all  the  men  were  talking,  Davy  came  up  to 
us  and  confirmed  my  presentiment. 

"  What  a  handsome  gentleman  he  is,  but  how  he 
stares ! "  said  Clara,  in  a  serious  manner  that  set  me 
laughing ;  and  then  Davy  whispered  "  Hush  ! " 

But  it  was  of  little  use,  for  Santonio  came  up  now  to 
our  corner,  and  deposited  his  case  on  the  next  chair 
to  Miss  Benette,  looking  at  her  all  the  while  and  at  me, 
so  that  we  could  well  see  his  face.  It  was  certainly 
very  handsome,  —  a  trifle  too  handsome,  perhaps,  yet 
full  of  harmonious  lines,  and  the  features  were  very 
pure.  His  complexion  was  glowing,  yet  fair,  and 
passed  well  by  contrast  into  the  hue  of  his  eyes,  which 
were  of  that  musical  gray  more  blue  than  slate-colored. 


SANTONIO. 


145 


Had  he  been  less  handsome,  the  Hebrew  contour 
might  have  been  more  easily  detected ;  as  it  was,  it 
was  clear  to  me,  but  might  not  have  occurred  to  others 
who  did  not  look  for  it.  A  brilliant  person,  such  as 
I  have  seldom  seen,  he  yet  interested  more  by  his 
gestures,  his  way  of  scanning,  and  smihng  to  himself, 
his  defiant  self-composure,  something  discomposing  to 
those  about  him,  than  by  his  positive  personal  attrac- 
tions. Having  examined  us,  he  examined  also  Davy, 
and  said  specially,  "How  are  you?" 

"  Quite  well,  thank  you,"  replied  our  master ;  "  I 
had  no  right  to  expect  you  would  remember  me,  Mr. 
Santonio." 

"  Oh  !  I  never  forget  anybody,"'  was  the  reply ;  "  I 
often  wish  I  did,  for  I  have  seen  everybody  now,  and 
there  is  no  one  else  to  see." 

"  Oh  ! "  thought  I  to  myself,  but  I  said  nothing, 
"you  have  not  seen  Ofie'^  For  I  felt  sure,  I  knew  not 
why,  that  he  had  not. 

"  Is  this  your  son,  Davy?"  questioned  he,  once  more 
speaking,  and  looking  down  upon  me  for  an  instant. 

"  Certainly  not ;  my  pupil  and  favorite  alto." 

"  Is  he  for  the  profession,  then  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  say,  Charles  ? ' 

"Yes,  Mr.  Davy,  certainly." 

"  If  I  don't  mistake,  it  will  not  be  alto  long,  though," 
said  Santonio,  with  lightness ;  "  his  arm  and  hand  are 
ready  made  for  me." 

I  was  so  transported  that  I  believe  I  should  have 
knelt  before  Santonio  but  that,  as  lightly  as  he  had 
spoken,  he  had  turned  again  away.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
not  said  those  words,  so  unaltered  was  his  face,  with 
those  curved  eyebrov/s ;  and  I  wished  he  had  left  me 
alone  altogether,  I  felt  so  insignificant.  It  was  a  good 
VOL.  I.  —  ro 


146  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

thing  for  me  that  now  there  entered  footmen  very 
stately,  with  silver  trays,  upon  which  they  carried 
coffee,  very  strong  and  cold,  and  chilly  green  tea. 
We  helped  ourselves,  every  one,  and  then  it  was  I 
really  began  to  enjoy  the  exclusion  with  which  we  had 
been  visited ;  for  we  all  seemed  shut  in  and  belonging  to 
each  other.  The  pianist  primo  joked  with  Santonio,  and 
Mr.  Westley  attacked  Davy,  while  Newton  and  the  man 
in  the  blue  coat  with  bright  buttons  wore  the  subject  of 
the  festival  to  a  thread ;  for  the  former  had  been  away, 
and  the  latter  had  been  there,  and  the  latter  enlight- 
ened the  former,  and  more  than  enlightened  him,  and 
where  his  memory  failed,  invented,  never  knowing  that 
I,  who  had  been  present,  was  listening  and  judging, 
—  as  Clara  said,  '^  he  was  making  up  stories ; "  and 
indeed  it  was  a  surprise  for  me  to  discover  such  an 
imagination  dwelling  in  a  frame  so  adipose. 

Santonio  at  last  attracted  our  whole  attention  by 
pouring  his  coffee  into  the  fire,  and  asking  a  footman, 
who  had  re-entered  with  wafers  and  tea-cakes,  for  some 
more  coffee  that  was  hot ;  and  while  we  were  all  laugh- 
ing very  loud,  another  footman,  a  shade  more  pompous 
than  this,  threw  back  the  folding-doors  that  divided  us 
from  the  impenetrable  saloon.  As  those  doors  stood 
open  we  peeped  in. 

''  How  many  people  there  are  !  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  Clara,  "  but  they  are  not  very  wise." 

"  Why  do  you  suppose  not  ?  " 

"  First,  because  they  have  set  the  piano  close  up  against 
the  wall.     Mr.  Davy  will  have  it  out,  I  know." 

"  I  see  a  great  many  young  ladies  in  pink  frocks,  — 
I  suppose  the  Miss  Redferns." 

"  See  that  man,  Master  Auchester,  who  is  looking  down 
at  the  legs  of  the  piano,  to  find  out  how  they  are  put  on." 


CLARA'S  SONG.  I47 

And  thus  we  talked  and  laughed  until  Santonio  had 
finished  his  coffee,  quite  as  if  no  one  was  either  in  that 
room  or  in  the  next. 

"It  was  not  warm,  after  all,"  said  he  to  Mirandos ; 
but  this  was  in  a  lower  tone,  and  he  put  on  an  air  of 
hauteur  withal  that  became  him  wonderfully.  Then  I 
found  that  we  had  all  become  very  quiet,  and  there  had 
grown  a  hush  through  the  next  room,  so  that  it  looked 
like  a  vast  picture,  of  chandeliers  all  light,  tall  glasses, 
ruddy  curtains,  and  people  gayly  yet  hghtly  dressed. 
The  men  in  there  spoiled  the  picture,  though,  —  they 
none  of  them  looked  comfortable  :  men  seldom  do  in 
England  at  an  evening  party.  Our  set,  indeed,  looked 
comfortable  enough,  though  Davy  was  a  little  pale ;  I 
very  well  knew  why.  At  last  in  came  the  footman 
again ;  he  spoke  to  the  gentleman  in  the  blue  coat  with 
bright  buttons.  He  bowed,  looked  red,  and  walked  up 
to  Davy.  Miss  Benette's  song  came  first,  I  knew ;  and 
I  declare  the  blood  quite  burned  at  my  heart  with  feel- 
ing for  her.  How  little  I  knew  her  really  !  Almost 
before  I  could  look  for  her,  she  was  gone  firom  my 
side  j  I  watched  her  into  tke  next  room.  She  walked 
across  it  just  as  she  was  used  to  cross  her  own  Httle 
lonely  room  at  home,  except  that  she  just  touched 
Davy's  arm.  As  she  had  predicted,  he  drew  the  piano 
several  feet  from  the  wall,  —  it  was  a  grand  piano.  —  and 
she  took  her  place  by  him.  As  serenely,  as  seriously, 
with  that  bright  light  upon  her  face  which  was  as  the 
sunshine  amidst  those  lamps,  she  seemed,  and  I  believe 
was,  as  serene,  as  serious,  as  when  at  home  over  her 
exquisite  broider}\  No  music  was  before  Davy  as  he 
commenced  the  opening  symphony  of  one  of  Webers 
most  dehghting  airs.  The  public  was  just  fresh  from 
the    pathos    of  Weber's   early   death,   and   everybody 


148  CHARLES  AUCHESTER, 

rushed  to  hear  his  music.  She  began  with  an  intensity 
that  astonished  even  me,  —  an  ease  that  so  completely 
instilled  the  meaning  that  I  ceased  to  be  alarmed  or  to 
tremble  for  her.  Her  voice  even  then  held  promise  of 
what  it  has  since  become,  as  perfectly  as  does  the 
rose-bud,  half  open,  contain  the  rose.  I  have  seen 
singers  smile  while  they  sang;  I  have  watched  them 
sing  with  the  tears  upon  their  cheeks :  yet  I  never  saw 
any  one  sing  so  seriously  as  Miss  Benette,  calmly, 
because  it  is  her  nature,  and  above  all,  with  an  evident 
facility  so  peculiar  that  I  have  ceased  to  reverence 
conquered  difficulties  so  much  as  I  believe  I  ought  to 
do  for  the  sake  of  art.  Everybody  was  very  quiet, 
quieter  than  at  many  pubHc  concerts  ;  but  this  audience 
was  half  stupefied  with  curiosity,  as  well  as  replete  with 
the  novelty  of  the  style  itself  Everybody  who  has  en- 
thusiasm knows  the  effect  of  candle-hght  upon  the  brain 
during  the  performance  of  music  anywhere,  and  just  as 
we  were  situated  there  was  a  strange  romance,  I  thought. 
Santonio  stood  upon  the  rug ;  a  very  sweet  expression 
sat  upon  his  lips,  —  I  thought  even  he  was  enchanted  ; 
and  when  Clara  was  silent  and  had  come  back  again 
so  quietly,  without  any  flush  upon  her  face,  I  thought 
he  would  surely  come  too  and  comphment  her.  But  no, 
he  was  to  play  himself,  and  had  taken  out  his  violin. 

It  was  a  little  violin,  and  he  lifted  it  as  if  it  had  been 
a  flower  or  an  infant,  and  laid  his  head  lovingly  upon 
it  while  he  touched  the  strings.  They,  even  those 
pizzicato  hints,  seemed  to  me  to  be  sounds  borne  out 
of  another  sphere,  so  painfully  susceptible  I  became 
instantly  to  the  power  of  the  instrument  itself. 

"  It  is  to  be  the  Grand  Sonata,  I  see." 

"No,  sir,"  said  Davy,  who  had  come  back  with 
Miss  Benette. 


DUO  FOR    VIOLIN  AND  PIANO.  1 49 

"Yes,    but   I    shall  not    play    with   Mirandos ;   we 
settled  that,  Miss  LawTence  and  I." 

'•Who  is  Miss  Lawrence?" 

"  An  ally  of  mine." 

"  In  the  room  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes.  Don't  talk,  Davy;  she  is  coming  after 
me.     Your  servant,  INIiss  La\\Tence  !  " 

I  beheld  a  young  lady  in  the  doorway. 

"So,  ^Ir.  Santonio,  you  are  not  ready?  They  are 
all  very  impatient  for  a  sight  of  you." 

"  I  am  entirely  at  your  service." 

''  Come,  then." 

She  beckoned  with  her  hand.  It  was  all  so  sudden 
that  I  could  only  determine  the  color  of  her  hair, 
black ;  and  of  her  brocaded  dress,  a  dark  blue.  Her 
voice  was  in  tone  satirical,  and  she  spoke  like  one 
accustomed  to  be  obeyed.  When  Santonio  entered, 
there  began  a  buzzing,  and  various  worthies  in  white 
kid  gloves  clustered  round  the  piano.  He  drew  the 
desk  this  side  of  the  instrument,  so  that  not  only  his 
back  was  turned  to  us,  but  he  screened  Miss  La\\Tence 
also ;  and  I  was  provoked  that  I  could  see  nothing  but 
the  pearls  that  were  twisted  with  her  braided  hair.  It 
was  one  of  Beethoven's  complete  works  to  be  inter- 
preted, a  divine  duo  for  violin  and  piano,  that  had  then 
never  been  heard  in  England,  except  at  the  Philhar- 
monic concerts ;  and  I  did  not  know  the  name  even 
then  of  the  Philharmonic.  And  when  it  began,  an  in- 
describable sensation  of  awe,  of  bliss,  of  almost  anguish, 
pervaded  me,  —  it  was  the  very  bitter  of  enjoyment ;  but 
I  could  not  realize  it  for  a  long  time. 

The  perfection  of  Santonio 's  bowing  never  tempted 
him  to  eccentricity,  and  no  one  could  have  dreamed  of 
comparing  him  with   Paganini,  so   his    fame  was   safe 


150  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

But  I  knew  nothing  of  Paganini,  and  merely  felt  from 
head  to  foot  as  if  I  were  the  violin  and  he  was  playing 
upon  me,  so  completely  was  I  drawn  into  the  perform- 
ance, body  and  soul,  — not  the  performance  merely, 
let  me  say ;  as  a  violinist  now,  my  conviction  is  that 
the  influence  is  as  much  physical  as  supernatural  of 
my  adopted  instrument.  That  time  my  nerves  were 
so  much  affected  that  I  trembled  in  every  part  of  me. 
Internally  I  was  weeping,  but  my  tears  overflowed 
not  my  eyes. 

Santonio's  cantabile,  whatever  they  say  of  Ernst  or  of 
Sivori,  is  superior  to  either.  There  is  a  manly  passion 
in  his  playing  that  never  condescends  to  coquette  with 
the  submissive  strings ;  it  wailed  enough  that  night  for 
anything,  and  yet  never  degenerated  into  imitation.  I 
knew  directly  I  heard  him  draw  the  first  quickening, 
shivering  chord  —  shivering  to  my  heart  —  I  knew  that 
the  vioHn  must  become  my  master,  or  I  its  own. 

Davy,  still  pale,  but  radiant  with  sympathetic  pleasure, 
continued  to  glance  down  upon  me,  and  Clara's  eyes 
were  lost  in  drooping  to  the  ground.  I  scarcely  know 
how  it  was,  but  I  was  very  inadvertent  of  the  pianoforte 
part,  magnificently  sustained  as  it  was  and  inseparable 
from  the  other,  until  Clara  whispered  to  Davy,  "  Does 
she  not  play  remarkably  well,  sir?" 

"Yes,"  he  returned;  "  I  am  surprised.  She  surely 
must  be  professional."  But  none  of  us  liked  to  inquire, 
at  least  then. 

I  noticed  afterwards,  from  time  to  time,  how  well  the 
piano  met  the  violin  in  divided  passages,  and  how  ex- 
actly they  went  together;  but  still  those  strings,  that 
bow,  were  all  in  all  for  me,  and  Santonio  was  the 
scarcely  perceptible  presence  of  an  intimate  sympathy, 
veiled  from  me  as  it  were  by  a  hovering  mist  of  sound. 


THE   CONCLUSION.  151 

So  it  was  especially  in  the  slow  movement,  with  its  long 
sighs,  like  the  voice  of  silence,  and  its  short,  broken 
sobs  of  joy.  The  thrill  of  my  brain,  the  deep  tumult  of 
my  bosom,  alone  prevented  me  from  tears,  just  as  the 
rain  falls  not  when  the  wind  is  swelling  highest,  but  waits 
for  the  subsiding  hush.  The  analogy  will  not  serve  me 
out,  nevertheless,  for  at  the  close  of  the  last  movement, 
so  breathless  and  so  impetuous  as  it  was,  there  was  no 
hush,  only  a  great  din,  in  the  midst  of  which  I  wept 
not ;  it  was  neither  time  nor  place.  Miss  Benette,  too, 
whispered  just  at  the  conclusion,  when  Santonio  was 
haughtily,  and  Miss  Lawrence  carelessly,  retiring, 
"  Now  we  shall  go  \  but  please  do  not  make  me  laugh, 
Master  Auchester."' 

"  How  can  you  say  so,  when  it  was  your  fault  that  we 
laughed  the  other  night  ?  " 

And  truly  it  did  seem  impossible  to  unsettle  that 
sweet  gravity  of  hers,  though  it  often  unsettled  mine. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

WE  went,  and  really  I  found  it  not  so  dreadful ;  and 
so  was  I  dra\\Ti  to  listen  for  her  voice  so  dear 
to  me  even  then,  that  I  forgot  all  other  circumstances 
except  that  she  was  standing  by  me  there,  singing.  I 
sang  very  well,  —  to  my  shame  if  it  be  spoken,  I  always 
know  when  I  do ;  and  the  light  color  so  seldom  seen  on 
Davy's  cheek  attested  his  satisfaction.  Davy  himself 
sang  alone  next,  and  we  were  cleared  off  every  one, 
while  he  sang  so  beautiful  a  bass  solo,  in  its  delicacy  and 
simplicity,  as  I  had  ever  heard.  Clara  and  I  mutually 
agreed  to  be  very  nervous  for  our  master.  I  am  sure  he 
was  so,  but  nobody  could  have  told  it  of  him  who  did 
not  know  him  inside  and  out,  —  not  even  Santonio, 
who,  standing  on  the  rug  again,  and  turning  down  his 
WTistbands,  which  had  disappeared  altogether  while  he 
played,  said  to  Mirandos,  "  He  seems  very  comfortable," 
meaning  Davy.  Then  came  a  quartet,  and  we  figured 
again. 

I  was  not  glad  to  feel  the  intermitting  tenor  supplant 
that  soprano.  Truly,  it  seemed  that  the  higher  Clara 
sang,  the  nearer  she  got  to  heaven.  The  company 
applauded  this  quartet,  mere  thready  tissue  of  sweet 
sounds  as  it  was  —  Rossini's  —  more  than  even  Santo- 
nio's  violin ;  but  twenty  years  ago  there  had  been  no 
universal  deluge  of  education,  as  I  have  lived  to  see 
since,  and,  at  least  in  England  in  the  midland  counties, 
people  were  few  who  could  make  out  the  signs  of  musi- 


MIR  AND  OS.  153 

cal  genius  so  as  to  read  them  as  they  ran.  Perhaps  it 
was  better  that  the  musician  then  only  sought  for  sym- 
pathy among  his  own  kind. 

I  knew  ^Mirandos,  and  his  fantasia  came  next,  and 
hastily  retreated,  pulling  Miss  Benette  by  her  dress  to 
bring  her  away  too  ;  for  I  had  a  horror  of  his  spreading 
hands.  Santonio,  impelled  I  daresay  by  the  small  curi- 
osity which  characterizes  great  minds  in  the  majority  of 
instances,  came  on  the  contrary^  forwards,  and  stood  in 
the  doonvay  to  watch  Mirandos  take  his  seat.  I  could 
see  the  sneer  settle  upon  his  lips,  subde  as  that  was ;  and 
I  should  have  liked  to  stand  and  watch  him,  for  I  am 
fond  of  watching  the  countenances  of  artists  in  their 
medium  moments,  when  I  saw  that  Miss  Benette  had 
stolen  to  the  fire,  and  was  leaning  against  the  mantel- 
shelf her  infantine  forehead.  Her  attraction  was  strong- 
est ;  I  joined  her. 

"Now,"  said  I,  "if  it  were  not  for  Santonio,  would 
you  not  find  this  evening  very  dull?" 

"  It  is  not  an  evening  at  all.  Master  Auchester,  it  is  a 
candle-light  day ;  and  so  far  from  finding  it  dull,  I  find  it 
a  great  deal  too  bright.  I  could  listen  forever  to  ]\Ir. 
Davy's  voice." 

"  What  can  it  be  that  makes  his  voice  so  sweet,  when 
it  is  such  a  deep  voice  ?  " 

"  I  know  it  is  because  he  has  never  sung  in  theatres. 
It  does  make  a  deep  voice  rough  to  sing  in  theatres, 
unless  a  man  does  not  begin  to  sing  so  for  a  long,  ver)^ 
long  time." 

"  Miss  Benette,  is  that  the  reason  you  do  not  mean  to 
sing  in  theatres  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  it  is  the  reason  I  sing  so  much  in  my  little 
room." 

"  Mr.  Davy  says  you  don't  mean  to  act." 


154  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  No  more  I  do  mean,  but  perhaps  it  will  come  upon 
me,  and  Thone  says,  '  Child,  you  must.'  " 

"  She  thinks  you  have  a  special  gift,  then?  " 

"  Who  said  to  you  about  the  special  gift,  Master  Au- 
chester?     Do  you  ever  forget  anything  you  hear?" 

"  Never  !  I  am  like  Mr.  Santonio.  But  Mr.  Davy 
told  me  the  night  I  asked  him  your  name." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  told  him  I  had  not  a  special  gift.  I 
thought  the  words  so  put  together  would  please  him, 
and  I  like  to  please  him,  he  is  good.  I  do  not  think 
it  is  a  special  gift,  you  know,  Master  Auchester,  to  act." 

"  What  is  it  then.  Miss  Benette  ?  '* 

**An  inspiration." 

"  Mr.  Davy  called  the  conducting  at  the  festival 
inspiration." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  but  all  great  composers  are  inspired." 

"  Do  you  consider  our  conductor  was  a  great  com- 
poser ?  " 

"  I  daresay ;  but  you  must  not  ask  me,  I  am  not 
wise.  Thone  is  very  wise,  and  she  said  to  me  the  other 
day,  after  you  were  gone,  ^  He  is  one  of  us.'  " 

"  But,  Miss  Benette,  she  is  a  gypsy,  and  I  am  not." 

"  We  are  not  all  alike  because  we  are  one.  Can  there 
be  music  without  many  combinations,  and  they  each  of 
many  single  sounds?" 

Mirandos  was  putting  on  the  pedal,  and  we  paused  at 
this  moment,  as  he  paused  before  the  attacca.  Santonio 
still  remained  in  the  doonvay,  and  Davy  was  standing  in 
the  window  against  the  crimson  curtain,  listening,  and 
quite  white  with  distress  at  the  performance ;  for  the 
keys  every  now  and  then  jangled  furiously,  and  a  storm 
of  arpeggi  seemed  to  endanger  the  very  existence  of  the 
fragile  wires. 

Suddenly  a  young  lady   swept  past  Santonio,   and 


MISS  LAWRENCE.  I  55 

glanced  at  Davy  in  passing  into  our  retreat.  Santonio, 
of  course,  did  not  move  an  inch ;  certainly  there  was 
just  room  enough  to  clear  him  !  But  Davy  fell  back  into 
the  folds  of  the  curtain,  frowning,  not  at  the  young  lady, 
but  at  the  fantasia. 

It  was  Miss  Lawrence ;  and  lo  !  before  I  could  well 
recognize  her,  she  stepped  up  to  me  and  said,  without  a 
bow  or  any  introductory  flourish,  "  Are  you  Mr.  Davy's 
pupil?" 

"  We  are  both,  ma'am,"  I  answered  fooHshly,  half  in- 
dicating Miss  Benette,  who  was  bending  her  lashes 
into  the  firelight.  Miss  Lawrence  replied  lightly,  yet 
seriously,  — 

^'  Oh,  I  know  she  is,  but  you  first,  because  I  knew  you 
again." 

I  gazed  upon  her  at  this  crisis.  She  had  a  peculiar 
face,  dark  yet  soft ;  and  her  eye  was  very  fine,  large,  and 
half  closed,  but  not  at  all  languid.  Her  forehead  spread 
wide  beneath  jetty  hair  as  smooth  as  glass,  and  her 
mouth  was  very  satirical,  —  capable  of  sweetness,  as  such 
mouths  alone  are,  though  the  case  is  often  reversed. 
How  satirical  are  some  expressions  that  slumber  in 
sweetness  too  exquisite  to  gaze  on  !  And  as  for  this 
young  lady's  manner,  very  easy  was  she,  yet  so  high  as 
to  be  unapproachable,  unless  she  first  approached  you. 
Her  accent  was  polished,  or  her  address  would  have 
been  somewhat  brusque ;  as  it  was,  it  only  required,  not 
requested,  a  reply.    She  went  on  all  this  time,  though,  — 

"  I  saw  you  in  the  chorus  at  the  festival,  and  I  watched 
you  well ;  and  I  saw  you  run  out  and  return  with  that 
water-glass  I  envied  you  in  bearing.  I  hope  you  thought 
yourself  enviable?" 

"  I  certainly  did  not,  because  I  could  not  think  of  my- 
self at  all." 


156  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

''  That  is  best !  Now  will  you  —  that  is,  can  you  — 
tell  me  who  the  conductor  was?" 

I  forgot  who  she  was,  and  imploringly  my  whole 
heart  said,  "  Oh,  do  pray  tell  us  !  We  have  tried  and 
tried  to  find  out,  and  no  one  knows." 

"No  one  knows,  but  I  wi/l  know  !"  and  she  shook 
impatiendy  the  rich  coral  negligee  that  hung  about  her 
throat.  Again,  with  much  bitterness  in  her  tones,  she 
resumed,  "  I  think  it  was  cruel  and  unjust  besides  not 
to  tell  us,  that  we  at  least  might  have  thanked  him. 
Even  poor  St.  Michel  was  groaning  over  his  ignorance 
of  such  a  personage,  —  if  indeed  he  be  a  wight,  and  not 
a  sprite.     I  shall  find  a  witch  next." 

"  Thone  !  "  I  whispered  to  Clara,  and  her  lips  parted 
to  smile,  but  she  looked  not  up. 

And  now  a  young  man  came  in,  out  of  the  company, 
to  look  for  Miss  Lawrence. 

"  Oh,  is  Miss  Lawrence  here  ?  "  said  Santonio,  care- 
lessly turning  and  looking  over  his  shoulder  to  find  her, 
though  I  daresay  he  knew  she  was  there  well  enough. 
However,  he  came  up  now  and  took  his  stand  by  her 
side,  and  they  soon  began  to  talk.  Rather  relieved  that 
the  responsibility  was  taken  off  myself,  I  listened 
eagerly. 

It  was  fascinating  in  the  extreme  to  me  to  see  how 
Miss  La\vrence  spurned  the  arm  of  the  gentleman  who 
had  come  to  look  for  her  and  to  conduct  her  back ;  he 
was  obliged  to  retire  discomfited,  and  Santonio  took  no 
heed  of  him  at  all.  I  could  not  help  thinking  then  that 
Miss  Lawrence  must  have  been  ev^er}'where  and  have 
seen  everything,  to  be  so  self-possessed,  for  I  could 
quite  distinguish  between  her  self-possession  and  Clara's, 
—  the  latter  natural,  the  former  acquired,  however 
naturally  worn. 


A   MUSICAL   CONVERSATION,  1 57 

It  was  not  long,  nevertheless,  before  I  received  a 
shock.  It  was  something  in  this  way.  Miss  La^vrence 
had  reverted  to  the  festival,  and  she  said  to  Santonio, 
*'  I  had  hopes  of  this  young  gentleman,  because  I 
thought  he  belonged  to  the  conductor,  who  spoke  to 
him  between  the  parts ;  but  he  is  as  wise  as  the  rest  of 
us,  and  I  can  only  say  my  conviction  bids  fair  to  become 
my  faith." 

"  Your  conviction  that  you  related  to  me  in  such  a 
romantic  narrative  ?  "  asked  Santonio,  without  appearing 
much  interested.  But  he  warmed  as  he  proceeded. 
"  The  wind  was  very  poor  at  the  festival,  I  heard." 

"  They  always  say  so  in  London  about  country  per- 
formances, you  know,  either  at  least  about  the  wind  or 
the  strings,  or  else  one  luckless  oboe  is  held  up  to  ridi- 
cule, or  a  solitary  flute,  or  a  desolate  double-bass.'^ 

"  But  if  the  solitary  flute  or  bass  render  themselves 
absurd,  they  should  be  ridiculed  far  more  in  a  general 
orchestra  than  in  a  particular  quartet  or  so,  for  the 
effect  of  the  master-players  thus  goes  for  nothing.  I 
never  yet  heard  a  stringed  force  go  through  an  oratorio, 
and  its  violent  exercises  for  the  tutti,  ^vithout  falling  at 
least  a  tone." 

"  Oh,  the  primi  were  very  well !  and  in  fact,  had  all 
been  flat  together,  it  would  have  been  unnoticeable ; 
while  the  tempi  were  marked  so  clearly,  no  one  had  time 
to  criticise  and  analyze.  But  the  organ  had  better  have 
been  quiet  altogether ;  it  would  have  looked  very  well, 
and  nobody  would  have  known  it  was  not  sounding." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  every  one  would  then  have  called 
out  for  more  noise." 

"  Not  so,  Mr.  Santonio  ;  there  was  quite  body  enough. 
But  there  sat  Erfurt,  groping,  as  he  always  does,  for  the 
pedals,  and  punching  the  keys,  while  the  stops,  all  out, 


158  CHARLES  A U CHESTER. 

could  very  often  not  be  got  in  in  time,  and  we  had 
fortissimo  against  the  fiddles." 

"  I  wonder  your  conductor  did  not  give  one  Httle  tap 
upon  Erfiirt's  skull.  So  much  for  his  own  judgment, 
Miss  Lawrence." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Santonio  ;  the  grand  point 
was  making  all  go  together,  such  as  it  was,  so  that  no 
one  realized  a  discrepancy  anywhere.  Interruptions 
would  not  only  have  been  useless,  they  would  have  been 
ignorant ;  but  in  this  person's  strange  intimacy  with  the 
•  exigencies  of  a  somewhat  unsteady  orchestra,  his  con- 
summate triumph  was  achieved." 

"  Well,  I  beheve  he  will  be  found  some  time  hence,  in 
some  out-of-the-way  hole,  that  shall  deprive  you  all  of 
enchantment." 

"  I  do  believe  he  is  my  wizard  of  Rothseneld." 
"  You  are  very  credulous  if  you  can  so  beheve." 
And  they  said  much  more.     But  what  shocked  me, 
had  been  the   denuding  treatment  of  my  all-glorious 
festival,  —  my  romance  of  perfectibility,  my  ideal  world. 
How  they  talked  —  for  I  cannot  remember  the  phrases 
they  strung  into  cold  chains,  at  much  greater  length 
than  I  record  —  of  what  had  been  for  me  as  heaven  out- 
spread above  in  mystery  and  beauty,  and  as  a  heaven- 
imaging  deep  beneath,  beyond  my  fathom,  yet  whereon 
I  had  exulted  as  on  the  infinite  unknown  !  they  making 
it  instead  a  reality  not  itself  all  lovely,  —  a  revelation 
not  itself  complete.     I  had  not  been  mixed  in  the  musi- 
cal world ;  for  there  is  such  a  world  as  is  not  heaven, 
but  earth,  in  the  realm  of  tone,  and  tone-artists  must 
pass,  as  it  were,  through  it.    How  few  receive  not  from  it 
some  touch,  some  taint  of  its  clinging  presence  !     How 
few,  indeed,  infuse  into  it  —  while  in  it  they  are  neces- 
sitated to  linger  —  the  spirit  of  their  heavenly  home  ! 


''WHILE    WE  MUSE,    THE  FIRE  KINDLESr     159 

Dimly,  of  a  truth,  had  the  life  of  music  been  then 
opened  to  my  ken ;  but  it  seemed  at  that  moment  again 
enclosed,  and  I  fell  back  into  the  first  darkness.  It  was 
so  sad  to  me  to  feel  thus,  that  I  could  not  for  an  instant 
recover  my  faith  in  myself.  I  fancied  myself  too  in- 
significantly affected,  and  would,  if  I  could,  have  joined 
in  the  anti- spiritual  prate  of  Miss  Lawrence  and  San- 
tonio.  Let  me  do  them  no  injustice ;  they  were  both 
musicians,  but  I  was  not  old  enough  to  appreciate  their 
actual  enthusiasm,  as  it  were  by  mutual  consent  a  sealed 
subject  between  them. 

I  am  almost  tempted,  after  all,  to  say  that  it  is  best 
not  to  tamper  with  our  finest  feelings,  —  best  to  keep 
silence  ;  but  let  me  beware,  —  it  is  while  we  muse,  the 
fire  kindles,  and  we  are  then  to  speak  with  our  tongues. 
Let  them  be  touched  too,  though,  with  the  inward  fire, 
or  we  have  no  right  to  speak. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

OH,  shame  upon  me,  thus  to  ramble,  when  I  should 
be  restoring  merely  ! 

After  the  shock  I  mentioned,  the  best  thing  happened 
to  me  possible,  —  we  had  to  sing  again;  and  Clara's 
voice  arising,  like  the  souls  of  flowers,  to  the  sun,  be- 
came actually  to  me  as  the  sun  unto  those  flowery  souls. 
I  revived  and  recovered  my  warmth ;  but  now  the  re- 
action had  come,  and  I  sang  through  tears.  I  don't 
know  how  my  voice  sounded,  but  I  felt  it  return  upon 
me,  and  Davy  grew  rather  nervous,  I  knew,  from  his 
manner  of  accompanying.  And  I  did  not  say  that  while 
Miss  Lawrence  had  stood  and  chatted  with  Santonio,  a 
noiseless  rentree  of  footmen  had  taken  place,  —  they 
bearing  salvers  loaded  with  ices  and  what  are  called 
"creams"  at  evening  parties. 

A  sort  of  interlude  this  formed,  of  which  the  guests 
availed  themselves  to  come  and  stare  in  upon  us ;  and 
as  they  looked  in  we  peeped  out,  though  nobody  ven- 
tured on  our  side  beyond  the  doorway.  So  our  duet  had 
happened  afterwards,  and  the  music  was  to  be  resumed 
until  twelve  o'clock,  the  supper-hour.  And  after  our 
duet  there  was  performed  this  coda,  that  Miss  Redfern 
requested  Miss  Lawrence  to  play  with  her,  and  that 
Miss  Lawrence  refused,  but  consented,  at  Santonio's 
suggestion,  to  play  alone.  As  soon  as  she  was  seen  past 
our  folding-door,  the  whole  male  squadron  advanced  to 
escort  her  to  the  piano ;  but  as  she  was  removing  her 


MISS  LAWRENCE'S  PERFORMANCE.         l6l 

gloves  leisurely,  she  waved  them  off,  and  they  became  of 
no  account  whatever  in  an  instant.  She  sat  down  very 
still  and  played  a  brilhant  prelude,  a  more  than  brilliant 
fugue,  short  and  sharp,  then  a  popular  air,  with  varia- 
tions, few,  but  finely  fingered  ;  and  at  last,  after  a  few 
modulations,  startling  from  the  hand  of  a  female,  some- 
thing altogether  new,  something  firesh  and  mystical,  that 
affected  me  painfully  even  at  its  opening  notes.  It  was 
a  movement  of  such  intense  meaning  that  it  was  but 
one  sigh  of  unblended  and  unfaltering  melody,  isolated 
as  the  fragrance  of  a  single  flower ;  and  only  the  per- 
fumes of  Nature  exhale  a  bliss  as  sweet,  how  far  more 
unexpressed  !  This  short  movement,  that  in  its  oneness 
w^as  complete,  grew,  as  it  were,  by  fragmentary  harmo- 
nies intricate,  but  most  gradual,  into  another,  —  2,  prestis- 
simo, so  delicately  fitted,  that  it  was  like  moonlight 
dancing  upon  crested  ripples ;  or  for  a  better  similitude, 
like  quivering  sprays  in  a  summer  wind.  And  in  less 
than  fifty  bars  of  regularly  broken  time  —  how  ravishingly 
sweet  I  say  not  —  the  first  subject  in  refrain  flowed 
through  the  second,  and  they  interwoven  even  as  creep- 
ers and  flowers  densely  tangled,  closed  together  simul- 
taneously. The  perfect  command  Miss  Lawrence 
possessed  over  the  instrument  did  not  in  the  least  occur 
to  me ;  I  was  possessed  but  by  one  idea.  Yet  too 
nervous  to  venture  into  that  large  room,  I  eagerly 
watched  her,  and  endeavored  to  arrest  her  eye,  that  I 
might  beckon  her  among  us  again ;  so  resolute  was  I  to 
ask  her  the  name  of  the  author.  Santonio,  as  if  really 
excited,  had  made  a  sort  of  rush  to  her,  and  was  now 
addressing  her,  but  I  heard  not  what  they  said,  though 
Davy  did,  for  he  had  followed  Santonio.  To  my  sur- 
prise, I  saw  that  Miss  Benette  had  taken  herself  into  a 
comer,  and  when  I  gazed  upon  her  she  was  wiping  her 

VOL.  I.  —  II 


1 62  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

eyes.  I  was  reminded  then  that  my  own  were  running 
over. 

Scarcely  was  I  fit  to  look  up  again,  having  retreated 
to  another  comer,  when  I  beheld  Miss  Lawrence,  in 
her  blue  brocade,  come  in  and  look  about  her.  She 
absolutely  advanced  to  me. 

"  Did  you  like  that  little  dream  ?  That  is  my  notion 
of  the  gentleman  at  the  festival,  do  you  know." 

"  Did  you  compose  it  ?  "  I  asked  in  a  maze. 

"  No,  I  believe  he  did." 

"Then  you  know  who  he  is?  Tell  me,  oh!  tell  me 
the  name." 

She  smiled  then  at  me  with  kindness,  —  a  beneficent 
sweetness.  "  Come,  sit  down,  and  I  will  sit  by  you  and 
tell  you  the  story." 

"  May  not  Miss  Benette  come  too  ?  " 

"Oh,  certainly,  if  she  is  not  more  comfortable  out 
there.  I  wish  you  would  bring  her,  though,  for  I  want 
to  see  her  eyes."  I  slipped  over  the  carpet.  "  Come, 
Miss  Benette,  and  hear  what  Miss  La\\Tence  is  saying." 
She  looked  a  little  more  serious  with  surprise,  but  fol- 
lowed me  across  the  room  and  took  the  next  chair 
beyond  mine.  Santonio  came  up  too,  but  Miss  Law- 
rence said,  "  Go,  —  you  have  heard  it  before  ; "  and 
he,  having  to  play  again  next,  retired  with  careful 
dignity. 

"  You  must  know  that  once  on  a  time,  —  which  means 
about  three  months  ago,"  —  began  Miss  Lawrence,  as  if 
she  were  reading  the  introductory  chapter  of  a  new 
novel,  "  I  wanted  some  country  air  and  some  hard  prac- 
tice. I  cannot  get  either  in  London,  where  I  live,  and 
I  determined  to  combine  the  two.  So  I  took  a  cottage 
in  a  lone  part  of  Scotland,  —  mountainous  Scotland  ; 
but  no  one  went  with  me  except  my  maid,  and  we  took 


HER  STORY.  1 63 

care  together  of  a  grand  pianoforte  which  I  hired  in 
Edinburgh,  and  carried  on  with  me,  van  and  all. 

"  It  was  glorious  weather  just  then,  and  when  I  ar- 
rived at  my  cottage  I  found  it  very  difficult  to  practise, 
though  very  charming  to  play;  and  I  played  a  great 
deal,  —  often  all  the  day  until  the  evening,  when  I  inva- 
riably ascended  my  nearest  hill,  and  inhaled  the  purest 
air  in  the  whole  world.  My  maid  went  always  with  me  ; 
and  at  such  seasons  I  left  my  pianoforte  sometimes  shut, 
and  sometimes  open,  as  it  happened,  in  my  parlor, 
which  had  a  splendid  prospect,  and  very  wide  windows 
opening  to  the  garden  in  front.  I  allowed  these  win- 
dows to  remain  open  always  when  I  went  out,  and  I 
have  often  found  Beethoven's  sonatas  strewed  over  the 
lawn  when  the  wind  blew  freshly,  as  very  frequently  it 
did.  You  may  beheve  I  often  prolonged  my  strolls  until 
the  sun  had  set  and  the  moon  arisen.  So  one  time  it 
happened,  I  had  been  at  work  the  whole  day  upon  a 
crabbed  copy  of  studies  by  Bach  and  Handel  that  my 
music-seller  had  smuggled  for  me  from  an  old  bureau  in 
a  Parisian  warehouse,  —  for  you  must  know  such  studies 
are  rarely  to  be  found." 

"Why  not?  "  asked  I,  rather  abruptly,  just  as  if  it  had 
been  Millicent  who  was  speaking. 

"  Oh  !  just  because  they  are  rare  practice,  I  suppose. 
But  listen,  or  our  tale  will  be  cut  off  short,  as  I  see  San- 
tonio  is  about  to  play." 

'•'  Oh,  make  haste  then,  pray  !  " 

And  she  resumed  in  a  vein  more  lively. 

"  The  whole  day  I  had  worked,  and  at  evening  I  went 
out.  The  sunshine  had  broken  from  dark,  moist  clouds 
all  over  those  hills.  The  first  steep  I  climbed  was  pro- 
fusely covered  with  honeysuckle,  and  the  rosy  gold  of 
the  clusters,  intermixed  with  the  heather,  just  there  a 


1 64  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

perfect  surface,  pleased  me  so  much  that  I  gathered 
more  than  I  could  well  hold  in  both  my  arms.  Vic- 
torine  was  just  coming  out,  —  that  is,  my  handmaid,  — 
and  I  returned  past  her  to  leave  my  flowers  at  home. 
It  struck  me  first  to  throw  them  over  the  palings  upon  the 
httle  lawn,  but  second  thoughts  determined  me  to  carry 
them  in-doors  for  a  sketch,  or  something.  I  got  into  my 
parlor  by  the  glass  door,  and  flung  them  all,  fresh  as 
they  were,  and  gUmmering  with  rain-drops,  upon  the 
music-stand  of  the  pianoforte.  I  cannot  tell  you  why  I 
did  it,  but  so  it  was ;  and  I  had  a  fancy  that  they  would 
be  choice  companions  for  those  quaint  studies  which 
yet  lay  open  upon  the  desk. 

"  In  that  lone  place,  such  was  its  beauty  and  its  vir- 
tue, we  never  feared  to  leave  the  windows  open  or  the 
doors  all  night  unlocked ;  and  I  think  it  very  possible  I 
may  have  left  the  little  gate  of  the  front  garden  swing- 
ing after  me,  for  Victorine  always  latched  it,  as  she 
came  last. 

"  At  all  events,  I  found  her  on  the  top  of  the  honey- 
suckle height,  carrying  a  camp-stool  and  looking  very 
tired.  The  camp-stool  was  for  her,  as  I  always  reposed 
on  the  grass,  wrapped  in  a  veritable  tartan.  And  this 
night  I  reposed  a  good  deal  to  make  a  flying  sunset 
sketch.  Then  I  stayed  to  find  fault  with  my  dry  earth 
and  wooden  sky,  and  the  heather  with  neither  gold  nor 
bloom  upon  it ;  then  to  watch  the  shadows  creep  up  the 
hill,  and  then  the  moon,  and  then  the  lights  in  the 
valley,  till  it  was  just  nine  o'clock.  Slowly  strolling 
home,  I  met  nobody  except  a  shadow,  —  that  is  to  say, 
as  I  was  moving  no  faster  myself  than  a  snail,  I  sud- 
denly saw  a  long  figure  upon  the  ground  flit  by  me  in 
the  broad  moonlight. 

*'  *■  It  was  a  gentleman  in  a  cloak,'    said   Victorine. 


''HEATHER  AND  HONEYSUCKLES  1 65 

But  I  had  seen  no  person,  only,  as  I  have  said,  a 
shadow,  and  took  no  note. 

"  '■  He  had  a  sketching-book  like  Mademoiselle's,  and 
was  pale,'  added  Victorine.  But  I  bade  her  be  silent, 
as  she  was  too  fond  of  talking ;  still,  I  replied,  '  Every- 
body looks  pale  by  moonlight,'  —  a  fact  to  be  ascer- 
tained, if  anywhere,  on  a  moonlit  moor. 

"  So  I  came  home  across  the  lawn,  and  got  in  at  my 
^^'indow.  I  rang  for  candles  ;  it  was  not  dark,  certainly, 
but  I  wanted  to  play.  I  stood  at  the  window  till  the 
goodwife  of  the  house,  from  her  little  kitchen,  brought 
them  up.  She  placed  them  upon  the  piano,  as  I  had 
always  ordered  her  to  do,  and  left  the  room.  After  I 
had  watched  the  moonlight  out  of  doors  for  some  time, 
being  lazy  with  that  wild  air,  I  walked  absently  up  to  the 
instrument.  What  had  taken  place  there  ?  Behold,  the 
Bach  and  Handel,  discarded,  lay  behind  the  desk,  hav- 
ing been  removed  by  some  careful  hand,  and  on  the  desk 
itself,  still  overhung  with  the  honeysuckle  and  heather  I 
had  hastily  tossed  about  it,  I  found  a  sheet  of  music- 
paper.  I  could  not  beheve  my  eyes  for  a  long  time.  It 
was  covered  with  close,  delicate  composition,  so  small 
as  to  fill  a  double  page,  and  distinct  as  any  printing. 
It  had  this  inscription,  but  no  name,  no  notice  else  : 
*  Heather  and  Honeysuckle ;  a  Tone-wreath  from  the 
Northern  Hills.'" 

*' And  that  is  what  you  played;  oh,  Miss  La\\Tence  !  " 
I  cried,  less  in  ecstasy  at  the  sum  of  the  story  than 
at  my  own  consciousness  of  having  anticipated  its 
conclusion. 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  played,  and  what  I  very  seldom 
do  play ;  but  I  thought  you  should  hear  it !  " 

"  I  !  "  I  cried,  much  too  loud  under  the  circum- 
stances ;  but  I  could  not  have  helped  it.     "  It  was  very 


1 66  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

kind  of  you,  but  I  don't  know  why  you  should.  But  it 
is  by  him  then?" 

"  You  have  said  !  "  answered  Miss  Lawrence,  laugh- 
ing, —  "  at  least  I  think  so.  And  if  you  and  I  agree, 
no  doubt  we  are  right." 

"  No,  I  don't  see  that  at  all,"  I  repHed;  for  it  was  a 
thing  I  could  not  allow.  "  I  am  only  a  little  boy,  and 
you  are  a  great  player,  and  grown  up.  Besides,  you 
saw  his  shadow." 

"Do  you  think  so?  Well,  I  thought  so  myself, 
though  it  may  possibly  have  been  the  shadow  of  some- 
body else." 

Miss  Lawrence  here  stopped,  that  she  might  laugh ; 
and  as  she  laughed,  her  deep  eyes  woke  up  and  shone 
like  fire-flies  glancing,  to  and  fro.  Very  Spanish  she 
seemed  then,  and  very  Jewish  withal.  I  had  never  seen 
a  Spaniard  I  suppose  then,  but  I  conceive  I  had  met 
with  prints  of  Murillo's  "Flower-girl;"  for  her  eyes 
were  the  only  things  I  could  think  of  while  Miss  Law- 
rence laughed. 

"  At  all  events,"  she  at  last  continued,  "  the  '  Tone- 
wreath '  is  no  shadow."  I  was  astonished  here  to  per- 
ceive that  Clara  had  raised  her  eyes,  —  indeed,  they 
looked  fully  into  those  of  the  speaker. 

"  He  came  from  Germany,  you  can  be  sure  at  least." 

"  Why  so,  Miss  Benette  ? "  replied  Miss  Lawrence, 
graciously,  but  with  a  slight  deference  very  touching 
from  one  so  self-sustained. 

"  Because  it  is  only  in  that  land  they  call  music 
'  Tone.'  " 

"  But  still  he  may  have  visited  Germany  and  listened 
to  the  Tongedicht  ^  of  Beethoven  ;  for  he  is  not  so  long 
dead."  And  she  sighed  so  deeply  that  I  felt  a  deep 
1  Tone  poem. 


THE  LORD   OF  THE    VIOLIN.  1 67 

passion  indeed  must  have  exhaled  that  sigh.  I  got  cut 
of  my  chair  and  ran  to  Lenhart  Davy,  for  I  saw  him 
yet  in  the  curtain.  He  detained  me,  saying,  "  My  dear 
little  boy,  do  stay  by  me  and  sit  a  while,  that  you  may 
grow  calm ;  for  verily,  Charles,  your  eyes  are  dancing 
almost  out  of  your  head.  Besides,  I  should  like  you  to 
see  Mr.  Santonio  while  he  plays." 

**  Will  he  turn  his  face  this  way  though,  Mr.  Da\-y  ? 
For  he  did  not  before." 

"  I  particularly  requested  him  to  do  so,,  and  he  agreed, 
on  purpose  that  you  might  look  at  him/"'  In  fact,  San- 
tonio had  taken  up  the  gilt  music-stand,  and  very  coolly 
turned  it  towards  us,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  company, 
who  shrank  with  awe  from  his  immediate  presence,  and 
left  a  circle  round  him.  Then,  as  ]\Iirandos,  who  had 
to  play  a  trifling  negative  accompaniment  to  the  stringed 
solo,  advanced  to  the  piano,  the  lord  of  the  violin  turned 
round  and  nodded  at  me  as  he  himself  took  his  seat. 


CHAPER  XXII. 

WE  —  that  is,  Miss  Benette  and  Davy  and  I  — 
came  away  from  the  Redferns  all  in  a  hurry, 
just  before  supper,  Santonio  having  informed  us  that  he 
intended  to  stay.  He  indeed,  if  I  recollect  right,  took 
Miss  La\\Tence  down,  and  I  have  a  dim  remembrance 
of  Mirandos  poking  haughtily  in  the  background. 
Also  I  remember  our  conversation  on  returning  home, 
and  that  Davy  informed  us  Miss  Lawrence  was  im- 
mensely rich.  She  had  lost  her  mother  when  a  baby, 
he  said ;  but  I  thought  her  very  far  from  pitiable,  — 
she  seemed  to  do  so  exactly  as  she  pleased.  I  had  no 
idea  of  her  age,  and  I  did  not  think  about  it  at  all ;  but 
Miss  Benette  said,  "  She  is  as  independent  as  she  is 
gifted,  sir ;  and  she  spoke  to  me  like  one  who  is  very 
generous." 

"Yes,  I  should  think  so,"  said  Davy,  cheerfully; 
"Santonio  tells  me  she  is  a  pupil  of  Milans- Andre." 

"  Oh  !  "  I  cried,  "  how  I  wish  I  had  known  that." 

"  Why  so,  my  dear  boy  ?  " 

"  Because  I  would  have  asked  her  what  he  is  like,  — 
I  do  so  want  to  know." 

"  She  does  not  admire  him  so  wonderfully,  Santonio 
says,  and  soon  tired  of  his  instructions.  I  suppose  the 
fact  is  she  can  get  on  very  well  alone." 

"  But  I  wish  I  had  asked  her,  sir,"  I  again  said,  "  be- 
cause we  should  be  quite  sure  about  the  conductor." 


A    COMPLIMENT  FOR  LEXHART  DAVY.       1 69 

"  But  you  forget  Miss  La\\Tence  was  at  the  festival, 
Charles,  and  that  she  saw  you  there.  Come  !  my  boy 
you  are  not  vain." 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't  think  I  am.  Oh  !  Miss  Benette, 
you  laughed  I  " 

"Yes,  Master  Auchester,  because  you  could  be  no 
more  vain  than  I  am." 

"  Why  not,  Miss  Benette  ?  " 

"Because  we  could  neither  of  us  be  vain,  side  by 
side  with  our  tone-master,"  she  answered,  with  such  a 
childlike  single-heartedness  that  I  was  obliged  to  look 
at  Davy  to  see  how  he  bore  it.  It  was  very  nearly  dark, 
yet  I  could  make  out  the  Hnes  of  a  smile  upon  his 
face. 

"  I  am  very  proud  to  be  called  so,  Miss  Benette  ;  but 
it  is  only  a  name  in  my  case,  with  which  I  am  well 
pleased  my  pupils  should  amuse  themselves." 

"  Master  Auchester,''  exclaimed  Miss  Benette,  with- 
out reply  to  Da\y  at  all,  ••'  you  can  ask  Miss  LawTence 
about  Monsieur  Milans- Andre,  if  you  please,  for  she  is 
coming  to  see  my  work,  and  I  think  it  will  be  to-morrow 
that  she  will  come." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  IMiss  Benette  !  I  suppose  Miss  Law- 
rence said  that  to  you  when  Mr.  Davy  called  me  away 
to  him?" 

"  I  did  not  call  you,  Charles  ;  you  came  yourself." 

"  But  you  kept  me,  sir,"  —  and  it  struck  me  on  the  in- 
stant that  Davy's  delicate  device  ought  not  to  have  been 
touched  upon ;  so  I  felt  awkward  and  kept  silence. 

I  was  left  at  home  first,  and  promised  Clara  I  would 
come,  should  my  mother  and  the  weather  agree  to  per- 
mit me,  I  was  hurried  to  bed  by  Clo,  who  had  sat  up 
to  receive  me.  I  was  disappointed  at  not  seeing  Milli- 
cent,  with  the  unreasonableness  which  is  exclusively  fra- 


I/O  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

ternal ;  but  Clo  informed  me  that  my  mother  would  not 
permit  her  to  stay  out  of  bed. 

"  And,  Charles,  you  must  not  say  one  word  to-night, 
but  eat  this  slice  of  bacon  and  this  egg  directly,  and  let 
me  take  off  your  comforter." 

The  idea  of  eating  eggs  and  bacon  !  I  managed  the 
tgg,  but  it  was  all  I  could  do,  and  she  then  presented 
me  with  a  cup  of  hot  barley-water.  Oh  !  have  you  ever 
tasted  barley-water,  with  a  squeeze  of  lemon-juice,  after 
listening  to  the  violin?  I  drank  it  off,  and  was  just 
about  to  make  a  rush  at  the  door  when  Clo  stopped  me. 

"  My  dear  Charles,  Margareth  is  gone  up  to  bed ; 
stay  until  I  can  light  you  with  my  candle.  And  come 
into  my  room  to  undress,  that  you  may  not  wake  my 
mother  by  throwing  your  brush  down.' " 

I  was  marched  off  impotent,  she  preceding  me  up- 
stairs with  a  stately  step.  But  softly  as  we  passed  along, 
Millicent  heard  us ;  she  just  opened  a  httle  bit  of  her 
door,  and  stooped  to  kiss  me  in  her  white  dressing- 
gown.  ''  I  have  chosen  my  instrument,"  I  said,  in  a 
whisper,  and  she  smiled.     "  Ah,  Charles  !  " 

I  need  not  recapitulate  my  harangue  the  next  mor- 
ning when  I  came  down  late  and  found  only  Millicent 
left  to  make  my  breakfast.  I  was  expected  to  be  idle, 
and  the  rest  had  gone  out  to  walk.  But  I  wondered, 
when  I  came  to  think,  that  I  had  been  so  careless  as  to 
omit  asking  Clara  the  hour  fixed  for  Miss  Lawrence's 
visit,  —  though,  perhaps,  was  my  after-thought,  she  did 
not  know  herself  I  need  not  have  feared,  though  ;  for 
while  I  was  lying  about  on  the  sofa  after  our  dinner, 
having  been  informed  that  I  must  do  so,  or  I  should  not 
practise  in  the  evening,  in  came  Margareth  with  a  little 
white  note  directed  to  ''  Master  Charles  Auchester." 

"I  am  sure,  Master  Charles,"  said  she,  "you  ought 


A   NOTE  FROM  CLARA.  171 

to  show  it  to  my  mistress,  for  the  person  that  brought  it 
was  no  servant  in  any  family  hereabouts,  and  looks  more 
like  a  gypsy  than  anything  else.'' 

•'  Well,  and  so  it  is  a  g}'p5y,  Margareth.  Of  course  I 
shall  tell  my  mother,  —  I  know  all  about  it." 

Margareth  wanted  to  know,  I  was  sure,  but  I  did  not 
enlighten  her  further ;  besides,  I  was  in  too  great  a  hurr}- 
to  break  the  seal,  — a  quaint  little  impression  of  an  eagle 
can^-ing  in  his  beak  an  oak-branch.  The  note  was  writ- 
ten in  a  hand  full  of  character,  yet  so  orderly  it  made 
me  feel  ashamed.     It  was  as  follows  :  — 

Dear  Sir,  —  The  young  lady  is  here,  and  I  said  you 
wished  to  come.  She  has  no  objection,  and  will  stay  to 
see  you. 

Clara  Bexette. 

"  How  like  her  ! ''  I  thought ;  and  then,  with  an  unpar- 
donable impulse,  —  I  don't  defend  myself  in  the  least,  — 
I  flew  out  of  the  house  as  if  my  shoes  had  been  made  of 
satin.  I  left  the  note  open  upon  the  table  (it  was  in 
the  empty  breakfast-room  where  I  had  been  lolling), 
meaning  thereby  to  save  my  credit,  —  like  a  simpleton 
as  I  was,  for  it  contained  not  one  word  of  explanation. 

A  carriage  was  at  the  door  of  that  corner  house  in  St. 
Anthony's  Lane,  —  a  dark-green  carriage  ;  very  hand- 
some, very  plain,  with  a  pair  of  beautiful  horses  :  the 
coachman,  evidently  tired  of  waiting,  was  just  going  to 
turn  their  heads. 

When  I  got  into  the  room  upstairs,  or  rather  while  yet 
upon  the  stairs,  I  smelt  some  refined  sort  of  foreign  scent 
I  had  once  before  met  with  in  my  experience  ;  namely, 
when  my  mother  had  received  a  present  of  an  Indian 
shawl  in  an  Indian  box,  from  an  uncle  of  hers  who  had 
gone  out  to  India  and  laid  his  bones  there.     When  I 


1/2  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

really  entered,  Miss  Lawrence,  in  a  chair  by  the  table, 
was  examining  some  fresh  specimens  of  Miss  Benette's 
work  outspread  upon  the  crimson  as  before.  I  abruptly 
wished  Clara  good-day,  and  immediately  her  visitor  held 
out  her  hand  to  me.  This  lady  made  me  feel  queer  by 
daylight  :  I  could  not  realize,  scarcely  recognize,  her. 
She  looked  not  so  brilliant,  and  now  I  found  that  she  was 
slightly  sallow  ;  her  countenance  might  have  been  called 
heavy,  from  its  peculiar  style.  Still,  I  admired  her  eyes, 
though  I  discerned  no  more  fireflies  in  her  glance.  She 
was  dressed  in  a  great  shawl,  —  red,  I  think  it  was,  —  with 
a  black  bonnet  and  feather ;  and  her  gloves  were  so 
loose,  they  seemed  as  if  they  would  fall  off.  She  had  an 
air  of  even  more  fashionable  ease  than  ever,  and  I,  not 
knowing  that  it  was  fashionable  ease,  felt  so  abashed 
under  its  influence  that  I  could  not  hold  up  my  head. 

She  went  on  talking  about  the  work.  I  found  she 
wished  to  purchase  some  ;  but  Clara  would  not  part  with 
any  of  that  which  was  upon  the  table,  because  it  was  for 
the  Quakers  in  Albemarle  Square.  But  she  was  very 
willing  to  work  specially  for  Miss  Lawrence.  I  thought 
I  had  never  seen  Clara  so  calm,  —  I  wondered  she  could 
be  so  calm  ;  at  once  she  seemed  to  me  like  myself,  —  a 
child,  so  awfully  grown-up  did  Miss  La^vrence  appear. 
I  beheld,  too,  that  the  latter  lady  glanced  often  stealth- 
ily round  and  round  the  room,  and  I  did  not  like  her 
the  better  for  it.  I  thought  she  was  curious,  and  ver}' 
fine  besides ;  so  the  idea  of  asking  her  about  Milans- 
Andre  passed  out  of  my  brain  completely. 

She  had,  as  I  said,  been  discussing  the  work.  She 
gave  orders  for  embroidered  handkerchiefs,  and  was  very 
particular  about  the  flowers  to  be  worked  upon  them ; 
and  she  gave  orders  for  a  muslin  apron,  to  be  surrounded 
with  Vandykes,  and  to  have  vandyked  pockets,  —  for 


AN  EXTRAORDINARY  DESCRIPTION.         1 73 

a  toilet  cushion  and  veil ;  and  then  she  said :  "  Will 
you  have  the  goodness  to  send  them  to  the  Priory  when 
they  are  finished  ?  My  friends  live  there,  and  will  send 
them  on  to  me.  I  wish  to  pay  for  them  now,"  —  and 
she  laid  a  purse  upon  the  table. 

"  I  think  there  is  too  much  gold  here,  ma'am,"  said 
Clara,  innocently. 

"  I  know  precisely  the  cost  of  work,  Miss  Benette  : 
such  work  as  yours  is,  besides,  priceless.  Recollect, 
you  find  my  materials.  That  is  sufficient,  if  you  please." 
And  to  my  astonishment,  and  rather  dread,  she  turned 
full  upon  me  as  I  was  standing  at  the  table. 

"  You  wish  to  know  what  Milans- Andre  is  like,  Mas- 
ter Charles  Auchester,  —  for  that  is  your  name,  I  find. 
Well,  thus  much  :  he  is  not  like  you,  and  he  is  not  like 
Santonio,  nor  like  the  unknown  conductor,  nor  like  your 
favorite,  Mr.  Da\7.  He  is  narrow  at  the  shoulders,  with 
long  arms,  small  white  hands,  and  a  handsome  face,  — 
rather  too  large  for  his  body.  He  plays  wonderfiilly, 
and  fills  a  large  theatre  with  one  pianoforte.  He  is  very 
amiable,  but  not  kind ;  and  very  famous,  but  not  be- 
loved." 

"  "What  an  extraordinary  description  !  "  I  thought ;  and 
I  involuntarily  added  :  "  I  thought  he  was  your  master." 

She  seemed  touched,  and  answered  generously  :  "  I 
am  afraid  you  think  me  ungrateful,  but  I  owe  nothing 
to  him.  Ah!  you  owe  far  more  to  your  master,  Mr. 
Davy." 

I  was  pleased,  and  replied,  '•'  Oh  !  I  know  that ;  but  I 
should  like  to  hear  Milans- Andre  play." 

''  You  will  be  sure  to  hear  him.  He  will,  ere  long, 
become  common,  and  play  every^where.  But  if  I  had  a 
piano  here,  I  could  show  you  exactly  how  he  plays,  and 
could  play  you  a  piece  of  his  music." 


174  CHARLES  A  UC HESTER. 

I  thought  it  certainly  a  strange  mistake  in  punctiho 
for  Miss  Lawrence  to  refer  to  the  want  of  a  piano  in 
that  room  ;  but  I  little  knew  her.  She  paused,  too,  as 
she  said  it,  and  looked  at  Clara.  Clara  did  not  blush, 
nor  did  her  sweet  face  change. 

''  I  am  very  sorry  that  I  have  no  piano ;  I  am  to 
have  one  some  day  when  I  grow  rich.  But  Mr.  Davy  is 
kind  enough  to  teach  me  at  his  house,  and  I  sing  to  his 
piano  there.  I  wish  I  had  one,  though,  that  you  might 
play,  Miss  La^^Tence." 

The  fire-flies  all  at  once  sparkled,  almost  dazzled, 
from  the  eyes  of  Miss  LawTcnce  :  a  sudden  glow,  which 
was  less  color  than  light,  beamed  all  over  her  face.  I 
could  tell  she  was  enchanted  about  something  or  other, 
—  at  least  she  looked  so. 

"Oh!  Miss  Benette,"  she  answered,  in  a  genial  tone, 
"  you  are  very,  very  rich  wdth  such  a  voice  as  yours,  and 
such  power  to  make  it  perfect  as  you  possess." 

Clara  smiled.  "Thank  you  for  sapng  so."  Miss 
Lawrence  had  risen  to  go,  yet  she  still  detained  herself, 
as  having  something  left  to  do  or  say. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  you  both  again,  and  to  hear  you. 
You,  Miss  Benette,  I  am  sure  of;  but  I  also  expect  to 
discover  something  very  wonderful  about  Master  Charles 
Auchester.  You  are  to  be  a  singer,  of  course?"  she 
quickly  said  to  me. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  a  player,  if  I  am  to  be  an}1:hing." 
"  What,  another  Santonio,  or  another  Milans-Andre  ?  " 
"  Oh  !  neither ;  but  I  must  learn  the  violin." 
"  Oh  !  is  that  it?     Have  you  begun,  and  how  long?" 
"  Not  yet,  —  I  have  no  vioHn  ;  but  I  mean  to  begin 
very  soon." 

"  Only  determine,  and  you  will.     Farewell !  " 

She  had  passed  out,  leaving  a  purse  upon  the  table, 


GENEROSITY.  1/5 

containing  fifty  guineas.  Miss  Benette  opened  it, 
turned  out  the  coins  one  by  one,  and,  full  of  trouble, 
said,  "  Oh  !  whatever  shall  I  do  ?  I  shall  be  so  un- 
happy to  keep   it." 

'•But  that  is  wrong,  Miss  Benette,  because  you  de- 
serve it.     She  is  quite  right." 

"  No,  but  I  will  keep  it,  because  she  is  generous,  and 
I  can  see  how  she  loves  to  give." 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

LAURA  was  at  the  next  class.  I  had  almost  forgotten 
her  until  I  saw  her  eyes.  I  felt  quite  wicked 
when  I  perceived  how  thin  and  transparent  the  child 
had  grown,  —  wicked  to  have  thought  so  little  of  her  in 
suffering,  while  I  had  been  enjoying  myself.  I  cannot 
give  the  least  idea  how  large  her  eyes  looked,  —  they 
quite  frightened  me.  I  was  not  used  to  see  persons 
just  out  of  illness.  Her  hair,  too,  was  cut  much 
shorter,  and,  altogether,  I  did  not  admire  her  so  much. 
I  felt  myself  again  wicked  for  this  very  reason,  and  was 
quite  unhappy  about  it.  She  gave  me  a  nod.  Her 
cheeks  were  quite  pale,  and  usually  they  were  very 
pink :  this  also  affected  me  deeply.  Clara  appeared  to 
counter-charm  me,  and  I  saw  no  other  immediately. 

"  Ah,  Laura,  dear  !  you  are  looking  quite  nice  again, 
so  pretty,"  said  this  sweet  girl  as  she  took  her  seat; 
and  then  she  stooped  down  and  kissed  the  little  dancer. 

I  found  myself  rather  in  the  way;  for  to  Clara  it 
seemed  quite  natural  to  scatter  happiness  with  her  very 
looks.     She  turned  to  me,  after  whispering  with  Laura  : 

"She  wants  to  thank  you  for  the  flowers,  but  she 
does  not  like  to  speak  to  you." 

I  was  positively  ashamed,  and,  to  hide  my  confusion, 
said  to  Laura,  "  Do  you  like  violets?  " 

'•  Yes,  but  I  like  large  flowers  better.  I  like  red 
roses  and  blue  cornflowers." 

I  did  not  care  for  cornflowers  myself,  except  among 
the  corn ;  and  I  thought  it  very  likely  Laura  took  the 


A   PRESENTIMENT.  lyy 

poppies  for  roses  ;  still,  I  did  not  set  her  right,  —  it  was 
too  much  trouble.  But  if  I  had  known  I  should  never 
see  her  again,  —  I  mean,  see  her  as  she  then  was,  —  I 
should  have  taken  more  care  to  do  her  kindness.  Is  it 
not  ever  so  ?  Clara  entirely  engaged  me  ;  in  fact,  I  was 
getting  quite  used  not  to  do  without  her.  How  well  I 
remember  that  evening  !  We  sang  a  service.  Davy  had 
written  several  very  simple  ones,  and  I  longed  to  per- 
form them  in  public,  —  that  is  to  say,  in  the  singing 
gallery  of  our  church.  But  I  might  as  well  have 
aspired  to  sing  them  up  in  heaven,  so  utterly  would 
they  have  been  spurned  as  innovatory. 

It  was  this  evening  I  felt  for  the  first  time  what  I 
suppose  all  boys  feel  at  one  time  or  another,  —  that  they 
cannot  remain  always  just  as  they  are.  It  was  no 
satiety,  it  was  no  disappointed  hope,  nor  any  vague 
desire.  It  was  purely  a  conviction  that  some  change 
was  awaiting  me.  I  suppose,  in  fact,  it  was  a  presenti- 
ment. The  voices  of  our  choir  seemed  thin  and  far 
away ;  the  pale  cheek  of  Lenhart  Davy  seemed  stamped 
with  unearthly  lustre ;  the  room  and  roof  were  wider, 
higher ;  the  evening  colors,  clustered  in  the  shape  of 
windows,  wooed  to  that  distant  sky.  I  was  agitated, 
ecstatic.  I  could  not  sing ;  and  when  I  listened,  I  was 
bewildered  in  more  than  usual  excitement.  Snatches 
of  hymns  and  ancient  psalms,  morsels  of  the  Bible, 
lullabies  and  bells,  speeches  of  no  significance,  uttered 
years  and,  as  it  seemed,  centuries  ago,  floated  into 
my  brain  and  through  it,  despite  the  present,  and  made 
there  a  murmurous  clamor,  like  the  din  of  a  mighty 
city  wafted  to  the  ear  of  one  who  stands  on  a  com- 
manding hill.  I  mention  this  to  prove  that  presenti- 
ment is  not  a  fatuity,  but  something  mysterious  in  its 
actuahty,  —  like   love,  like  joy ;    perhaps  a  passion  of 


178  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

memory,  that  anticipates  its  treasures  and  delights 
to  be. 

"  What  beautiful  words  ! "  said  Clara,  in  a  whisper 
that  seemed  to  have  more  sweetness  than  other  whis- 
pers, just  as  some  shadows  have  more  symmetry  than 
other  shadows.  She  meant,  "  Unto  whom  I  sware  in 
my  wrath,"  and  the  rest. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  '^  I  Hke  those  words,  all  of  them, 
and  the  way  they  are  put.  I  always  liked  them  when 
I  was  a  little  boy." 

It  was  very  hard  to  Miss  Benette  not  to  reply  here, 
I  could  tell,  she  so  entirely  agreed  with  me ;  but  Davy 
was  recalling  our  attention.  When  the  class  was  over, 
she  resumed,  — 

"  I  know  exactly  what  you  mean ;  for  I  used  to  feel 
it  at  the  old  church  in  London,  where  I  went  with  Mr. 
Davy's  aunt,  and  could  not  see  above  the  pew.  it  was 
so  high." 

"  Did  you  like  her,  Miss  Benette?     Is  she  like  him?" 

"  No,  not  much.  She  is  a  good  deal  stricter,  but  she 
is  exceedingly  good ;  taller  than  he  is,  with  much  darker 
eyes.  She  taught  me  so  much,  and  was  so  kind  to  me, 
that  I  only  v/onder  I  did  not  love  her  a  great  deal 
more." 

I  felt  rather  aghast,  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  only 
wonder  when  I  love,  —  never  when  I  am  indifferent,  as 
to  most  persons.  As  we  were  going  out,  I  asked  leave 
to  come  and  practise  on  the  morrow,  —  I  felt  I  must 
come.  I  wonder  what  I  should  have  done  had  she 
refused  me  !  "  Certainly,  Master  Auchester."  But  she 
was  looking  after  Laura.  "  Let  me  pin  up  that  shawl, 
dear,  and  tie  my  veil  upon  your  bonnet,  —  mind  you 
wear  it  down  in  the  street."  The  child  certainly  seemed 
to  have  put  on  her  clothes  in  a  dream,  for  her  great 


A   PRESENT. 


179 


shawl  trailed  a  yard  behind  her  on  the  floor,  and  did 
not  cover  her  shoulders  at  all.  Her  bonnet-strings,  now 
very  disorderly  indeed,  were  entangled  in  a  knot, 
which  Clara  patiently  endeavored  to  divide.  I  waited 
as  long  as  I  dared,  but  Da\-y  was  staying  for  me  I 
knew,  and  at  last  he  waved  his  hand.  I  could  no 
longer  avoid  seeing  him,  and  said  to  Clara,  "  Good- 
night." She  smiled,  but  did  not  rise ;  she  was  kneeling 
before  Laura.     "  Good-night,  Miss  Lemark." 

She  only  looked  up.  The  large  eyes  seemed  like 
the  drops  of  rain  after  a  drenching  shower  within  the 
chalice  of  some  wood  anemone,  —  too  heavy  for  the 
fragile  face  in  which  they  were  set,  and  from  which  they 
gazed  as  if  unconscious  of  gazing.  I  thought  to  my- 
self, as  I  went  out,  she  will  die,  I  suppose ;  but  I  did 
not  tell  Davy  so,  because  of  his  reply  when  I  had  first 
spoken  of  Laura's  illness.  I  felt  very  dispirited  though, 
and  shrank  fi-om  the  notion,  though  it  still  obtruded 
itself.  Davy  was  very  quiet.  I  recollect  it  to  have 
been  a  white  fogg}'  night,  and  more  keen  than  cold : 
perhaps  that  was  the  reason,  as  he  was  never  strong  in 
health.  When  I  came  to  our  door  —  how  well  I 
remember  it  !  —  I  pulled  him  in  upon  the  mat  before 
he  well  knew  what  I  was  about. 

"  Oh  !  Master  Charles,"  exclaimed  Margareth,  who  was 
exclusive  porteress  in  our  select  establishment,  '"'your 
brother  has  brought  you  a  parcel, —  a  present,  no  doubt." 

"  Oh  !  my  goodness  :  where  is  Fred?  " 

'•They  are  all  in  the  parlor.  But,  sir,  won't  you 
walk  in?" 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Davy,  absently.  "  Oh  !  no  ; 
I  am  going  back.     Good-night,  Charles." 

"  Oh,  dear,  Mr.  Da\y,  do  stay  and  see  my  present, 
please  ! " 


l80  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

Davy  did  not  answer  here,  for  the  parlor  door  opened, 
and  my  mother  appeared,  benign  and  hospitable. 

"  Come  in,  come  in  !  "  she  said,  extending  her  hand, 
and  I  at  least  was  in  before  she  was  out  of  the 
parlor.  Fred  was  there,  and  Fred's  \vife  —  a  pretty 
black-haired  little  matron,  full  of  trivialities  and  full  of 
sympathy  with  Lydia  —  was  sitting  by  that  respected 
sister  at  a  little  table.  I  ran  to  shake  hands  with  Mrs. 
Fred,  and  knocked  over  the  table.  Alas  !  they  were 
making  bead  purses,  and  for  a  few  moments  there  was 
a  restoration  of  chaos  among  their  elements.  Clo  came 
from  a  dark  comer,  where  she  was  wide  awake  over 
Dean  Prideaux,  and  my  mother  had  raised  her  hands 
in  some  dismay,  when  I  was  caught  up  by  Fred  and 
lifted  high  into  the  air. 

"  Well,  and  what  do  I  hear,"  etc. 

"  Oh  !  Fred,  where  is  my  present?  " 

"  Present,  indeed  !  Such  as  it  is,  it  lies  out  there. 
Nobody  left  it  at  the  office,  so  Vincent  tells  me ;  but  I 
found  it  there  among  the  packages,  and  was  strongly 
inclined  to  consider  it  a  mistake  altogether.  Certainly 
'  Charles  Auchester,  Esq.,'  was  not  '  known  there  ; '  but 
I  smelt  plum-cake,  and  that  decided  me  to  have  it 
opened  here." 

I  rushed  to  the  chair  behind  the  sofa,  while  the 
rest  —  except  Millicent  and  Mr.  Davy,  who  were 
addressing  each  other  in  the  low  voice  which  is  the  test 
of  all  human  proprieties  —  were  scolding  in  various 
styles.  The  fracas  was  no  more  to  me  than  the  jingling 
of  the  maternal  keys.  I  found  a  large  oblong  parcel 
rolled  in  the  thickest  of  brown  papers,  and  tied  with  the 
thickest  of  strings  round  and  round  again  so  firmly  that 
it  was,  or  appeared  to  be,  hopeless  to  open  it  unless  I 
gnawed  that  cord. 


A   REAL   AM  ATI  VIOLIN:  l8l 

"  Oh  !  Lydia,  lend  me  your  scissors." 

"  For  shame,  Charles  !  "  pronounced  Clo.  '^  How 
often  have  I  bidden  you  never  to  waste  a  piece  of 
string  !  " 

She  absolutely  began  upon  those  knots  with  her 
fingers.  ]My  own  trembled  so  violently  that  they  were 
useless.  Meanwhile,  for  she  was  about  ten  minutes 
engaged  in  the  neat  operation,  —  I  scanned  the  address. 
It  was,  as  Fred  had  mentioned  to  me,  as  an  adult  and 
as  an  esquire,  and  the  writing  was  bold,  black_,  and 
backward.  It  seemed  to  have  come  a  long  way,  and 
smelt  of  travelling ;  also,  when  the  paper  was  at  length 
unfolded,  it  smelt  of  tow,  and  something  oblong  was 
muffled  in  the  tow. 

'^  A  box  !  "  observed  sapient  Clotilda.  I  tore  the  tow 
out  in  handfuls.  "  Don't  strew  it  upon  the  carpet, 
oh^  my  dearest  Charles  ! " 

Clo,  I  defy  you  !  It  was  a  box  truly,  but  what  sort 
of  a  box?  It  had  a  lid  and  a  handle.  It  was  also 
fastened  with  little  hooks  of  brass.  It  was  open,  I  don't 
know  how.  There  it  lay,  —  there  lay  a  real  violin  in  the 
velvet  lining  of  its  varnished  case  ! 

No,  I  could  not  bear  it ;  it  was  of  no  use  to  try.  I 
did  not  touch  it,  nor  examine  it.  I  flew  away  upstairs. 
I  shut  myself  into  the  first  room  I  came  to,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  Lydia's  ;  but  I  did  not  care.  I  rushed  up 
to  the  window  and  pressed  my  face  against  the  cold 
glass.  I  sobbed;  my  head  beat  Hke  a  heart  in  my 
brain ;  I  wept  rivers.  I  don't  suppose  the  same  thing 
ever  happened  to  any  one  else,  therefore  none  can 
sympathize.  It  was  mystery,  it  was  passion,  it  was  in- 
finitude ;  it  was  to  a  soul  hke  mine  a  romance  so  deep 
that  it  has  never  needed  other.  My  violin  was  mine, 
and  I  was  it,  and  the  beauty  of  my  romance  was,  in 


1 82  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

truth,  an  ideal  charmer ;  for  be  it  remembered  that  I 
knew  no  more  how  to  handle  it  than  I  should  have 
known  how  to  conduct  at  the  festival. 

The  first  restoring  fact  I  experienced  was  the  thin 
yet  rich  vibration  of  that  very  violin.  I  heard  its  voice, 
somebody  was  trying  it,  —  Davy,  no  doubt;  and  that 
marvellous  quality  of  tone  which  I  name  a  double  one- 
ness —  resulting,  no  doubt,  from  the  so  often  treated  har- 
monics —  reached  and  pierced  me  up  the  staircase  and 
through  the  closed  door.  I  could  not  endure  to  go 
down,  and  presently  when  I  had  begun  to  feel  rather 
ghostly  —  for  it  was  dead  dark  —  I  heard  somebody 
come  up  and  grope  first  here,  then  there,  overhead  and 
about,  to  find  me.  But  I  would  not  be  found  until  all 
the  places  had  been  searched  where  I  did  not  happen  to 
be  hidden.  Then  the  person  came  to  my  door.  It  was 
Millicent ;  she  drew  me  into  the  passage. 

"  Oh  !  I  can't  go  down." 

'^  Darhng  do,  for  my  sake.  They  are  all  so  pleased. 
Mr.  Davy  has  been  playing,  and  he  says  it  is  a  real 
Amati." 

"  But  don't  let  Fred  touch  it,  please,  Millicent ! "  For 
I  had  a  vague  idea  it  would  not  like  to  be  touched  by 
Fred. 

"  Why,  no  one  ca7i  touch  it  but  Mr.  Davy,  —  not  even 
you,  Charles.    Do  come  downstairs  now  and  look  at  it." 

I  went.  Mr.  Davy  was  holding  it  yet,  but  the  instant 
I  entered  he  advanced  and  placed  it  between  my  arms. 
I  embraced  it,  much  as  young  ladies  embrace  their  first 
wax  dolls,  but  with  emotions  as  sweet,  as  deep,  as  mys- 
tical as  those  of  the  youth  who  first  presses  to  his  soul 
the  breathing  presence  of  his  earliest  love.  I  saw  then 
that  this  violin  was  a  tiny  thing,  —  a  very  fairy  of  a  fiddle  ; 
it  was  certainly  not  new,  but  I  did  not  know  how  very 


IS  S ANTONIO    TO   TRY  IT?  1 83 

old  it  was,  and  should  not  have  been  the  least  aware  how 
valuable  it  was,  and  of  what  a  precious  costliness,  but 
for  Davy's  observation,  "  Take  care  of  it,  Charles,  and  it 
will  make  you  all  you  wish  to  be.  I  rather  suspect  San- 
tonio  will  envy  you  its  possession  when  he  has  tried  it." 
"  But  is  he  to  try  it,  then,  Mr.  Davy  ?  " 
"  Your  mother  has  given  me  leave  to  ask  him,  if  I  see 
him  j  but  I  fear  he  has  already  returned  to  London." 
Davy  glanced  here  at  my  mother  with  a  peculiar  ex- 
pression, and  resumed,  "  I  am  going  to  write  to  him, 
at  all  events,  about  another  subject,  or  rather  upon  the 
same  subject." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Davy,  I  will  talk  to  my  little  boy  myself." 
"  Certainly,  madam  ;  I  will  not  anticipate  you." 
"  Charles  dear,"  said  Clo,  "  you  must  have  your  sup- 
per now  " 

It  appeared  to  me  that  I  had  already  had  it ;  but  I  re- 
stored my  doll  to  its  cradle  in  silence,  and  ate  uncon- 
sciously. Fred's  presence  at  the  board  stimulated  his 
lady  and  Lydia  to  extreme  festivity,  and  they  laughed 
the  whole  time  ;  but  Millicent  was  pale  and  Davy  quiet, 
and  he  departed  as  soon  as  he  possibly  might.  But  a 
smile  of  sweetness  all  his  own,  and  of  significance 
sweeter  than  sweetness,  brightened  his  frank  adieu  for 
me  into  the  day-spring  of  my  decided  destiny. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  next  morning  my  mother  redeemed  her  prom- 
ise. It  was  directly  after  breakfast  when  she  had 
placed  herself  in  the  chair  at  the  parlor  window.  She 
made  no  allusion  to  the  evening  before  until  she  com- 
pleted this  arrangement  of  hers,  and  then  she  looked  so 
serious,  as  I  stood  before  her.  that  I  fully  expected  some- 
thing I  should  not  like. 

"  Charles,"  she  said,  "  you  are  very  dear  to  me,  and 
perhaps  you  have  given  me  more  care  than  all  my  chil- 
dren, though  you  are  the  youngest.  I  have  often  won- 
dered what  you  would  be  or  become  as  a  member  of 
society,  and  it  was  the  last  of  all  my  thoughts  for  you 
that  you  must  leave  me  to  be  educated.  But  if  you  are 
to  be  a  musician,  you  must  be  taken  from  me  soon, 
or  you  will  never  grow  into  what  we  should  both  of  us 
desire,  —  a  first-rate  artist.  I  could  not  ^vish  you  to 
be  anything  less  than  first  rate,  and  now  you  are  very 
backward." 

"Am  I  to  go  to  London  then,  mother?"  I  shook  in 
every  limb. 

"I  believe  a  first-rate  musical  education  for  you  in 
London  would  be  beyond  my  means.  It  is  upon  this 
subject  your  friend  Mr.  Davy  is  to  be  so  good  as  to 
write  to  Santonio,  who  can  tell  us  all  about  Germany, 
where  higher  advantages  can  be  obtained  more  easily 
than  anywhere  in  England.  But,  Charles,  you  will  have 
to  give  up  a  great  deal  if  you  go,  and  learn  to  do  every- 


/  AM  TO  BE  A   MUSICIAN.  185 

thing  for  yourself.  If  you  are  ill,  you  will  have  to  do 
without  nursing  and  petting  as  you  would  have  here ; 
and  if  you  are  unhappy,  you  must  not  complain  away 
from  home.  Also  you  must  work  hard,  or  you  will  lose 
your  free  self-approval,  and  be  miserable  at  the  end.  I 
should  be  afraid  to  let  you  go  if  I  did  not  know  you  are 
musical  enough  to  do  your  duty  by  music,  and  loving 
enough  to  do  your  duty  by  your  mother ;  also,  that  you 
are  a  true  boy,  and  will  not  take  to  false  persons.  But  it 
is  hard  to  part  with  you,  my  child;  and  indeed,  we 
need  not  think  of  that  just  yet." 

I  did  though,  I  am  ashamed  to  say ;  and  I  wanted  to 
set  off  on  the  next  day.  I  knew  this  to  be  impossible, 
and  the  fact  that  consoled  me  was  the  very  one  of  my 
unstrung  ignorance ;  for  I  had  a  vague  impression  that 
Davy  would  tune  me  up  before  I  left  home.  I  could 
not  see  him  that  morning.  My  excitement  was  intense  ^ 
I  could  not  even  cut  a  caper,  for  I  had  to  do  my  lessons, 
and  Clo  always  behaved  about  my  lessons  as  if  they 
were  to  go  on  forever,  and  I  was  by  no  means  to  grow 
any  older.  She  was  especially  stationary  on  this  morn- 
ing, and  I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  apply  very  hard 
indeed.  My  copy  was  more  crabbed  than  ever ;  but 
while  she  commented  so  gravely  thereupon,  I  thought 
of  what  Santonio  had  said  about  my  arm  and  hand.  I 
was  not  vain,  —  I  have  not  a  tincture  of  vanity  all  through 
me,  —  but  I  was  very  proud,  and  also  most  demurely 
humble. 

At  dinner  Millicent  talked  to  me  of  my  prospects ; 
but  I  pretended  not  to  admit  them  in  all  their  magnifi- 
cence •.  the  prophetic  longing  was  so  painful  to  me  that 
I  dared  not  irritate  it.  So  she  rallied  me  in  vain,  and  I 
ate  a  great  deal  of  rice  pudding  to  simulate  occupation. 
Dinner  over,  they  all  retired  to  their  rooms,  —  I  to  my 


1 86  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

violin  in  a  corner  of  the  parlor.  I  hung  over  it  as  it  lay 
in  its  case,  I  fed  upon  it  in  spirit ;  but  I  did  not  take  it 
out,  I  was  afraid  of  any  one  coming  in.  At  last  I  spread 
my  pocket-handkerchief  upon  the  case,  and  sitting  down 
upon  it,  went  to  sleep  m  scarcely  conscious  possession. 
I  did  not  dream  anything  particular,  though  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  have  done  so,  and  it  had  been  better  for  these 
unilluminated  pages ;  but  when  I  awoke  it  was  late,  — 
that  is,  late  for  my  engagement  with  Miss  Benette. 

I  ran  all  the  way ;  and  as  I  reached  my  resting-place, 
it  occurred  to  me  that  I  should  have  to  tell  her  I  was 
going  to  Germany.  How  glad  she  would  be,  and  yet  a 
little  sorry ;  for  I  had  an  idea  she  liked  me,  or  I  should 
never  have  gone  near  her.  Vaulting  into  the  passage, 
I  heard  strange  sounds  —  singing,  but  not  only  singing. 
More  and  more  wonders,  I  thought,  and  I  dashed  up- 
stairs. The  sounds  ceased  when  I  knocked  at  the  door, 
which  Clara  came  to  open.  I  gazed  in  first,  before  I 
even  noticed  her,  and  beheld  in  the  centre  of  the  room 
a  small  polished  pianoforte.  I  flew  in  and  up  to  it,  and 
breathlessly  surveyed  it. 

''  Miss  Benette,  where  did  that  come  from  ?  I  thought 
you  were  not  to  have  a  pianoforte  for  ever  so  long." 

She  came  to  me,  and  replied  with  her  steady,  sweet 
voice  a  little  agitated,  — 

"  Oh  !  Master  Auchester,  I  wish  you  could  tell  me  who 
it  came  from,  that  I  might  give  that  person  my  heart 
quite  full  of  thanks.  I  can  only  believe  it  comes  from 
some  one  who  loves  music  more  than  all  things,  —  some 
one  rich,  whom  music  has  made  richer  than  could  all 
money.  It  is  such  a  sweet,  darling,  beautiful  thing  to 
come  to  me  !  Such  a  precious  glory  to  make  my  heart 
so  bright ! " 

The  tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  looking  at  her,  I  per- 


/  TELL  CLARA  I  AM  GOIXG   TO  GERMANY.     1 87 

ceived  that  she  had  lately  wept ;  the  veins  of  harebell- 
blue  seemed  to  quiver  round  the  lids. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Benette  !  I  had  a  violin  sent  to  me 
too,  and  I  thought  it  was  from  Mr.  Davy ;  but  now  I 
feel  quite  sure  it  was  from  that  lady." 

Clara  could  scarcely  speak,  —  I  had  never  seen  her  so 
overcome  ;  but  she  presently  answered,  — 

"  I  beheve  it  was  the  young  lady.  I  hope  so,  be- 
cause I  should  like  her  to  be  made  happy  by  remem- 
bering we  have  both  got  through  her  what  we  wanted 
more  than  anything  in  the  world.  She  would  not  like 
to  be  thanked,  though  ;  so  we  ought  not  to  grieve  that 
we  cannot  express  our  gratitude." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  really,  though,  because  it 
seems  so  strange  she  should  recollect  meP 

"  Oh,  Master  Auchester,  no  !  Any  one  can  see  the 
music  in  your  face  who  has  the  music  in  his  heart.  Be- 
sides, she  saw  you  at  the  festival,  and  how  anxious  you 
were  to  ser\'e  the  great  gentleman." 

"Now,  Miss  Benette,  I  am  to  tell  you  something." 

"  How  good  !     Do  go  on." 

I  laid  my  arm  on  the  piano,  but  scarcely  knew  how  to 
begin. 

"What  is  it  to  do,  then?"  asked  Clara,  winningly. 

"  I  am  going  really  to  be  a  musician,  Miss  Benette  ;  I 
am  going  to  Germany." 

She  did  not  reply  at  first ;  but  when  I  looked  up,  it 
was  as  though  she  had  not  wept,  so  bright  she  beamed. 

"  That 's  all  right,  I  knew  you  would.  Oh  !  if  she 
knew  how  much  good  she  had  done,  how  happy  she 
would  be  !  How  happy  she  will  be  when  she  goes  to  a 
concert  some  day,  in  some  year  to  come,  and  sees  you 
stand  up,  and  hears  you  praise  music  in  the  voice  it 
loves  best ! " 


1 88  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  Do  you  think  it  is  the  best  voice 
of  music  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  like  the  voice  of  a  single  soul,  I  do. 
But  Mr.  Davy  says  we  cannot  know  the  power  of  an 
orchestra  of  souls." 

"/can." 

"  Oh  !  I  beg  your  pardon  !  I  forgot." 

"  But  I  don't  think  that  I  remember  well ;  for  when- 
ever I  try  to  think  of  it,  I  seem  only  to  see  his  face, 
and  hear  his  voice  speaking  to  me,  saying,  '  Above  all, 
the  little  ones  ! '  " 

^'  How  pretty  it  was  !  You  will  be  sure  to  see  him  in 
Germany,  and  then  you  can  ask  him  whether  he  wrote 
the  '  Tone-Wreath.'  " 

Oh,  how  I  laughed  again  ! 

"  What  sort  of  place  shall  I  go  to,  should  you  think?  " 

"  I  don't  know  any  place  really,  Master  Auchester. 
I  can't  tell  what  places  they  have  to  learn  at,  upon  the 
Continent.  I  know  no  places  besides  this  house,  and 
Mr.  Davy's,  and  the  class,  and  church,  and  Miss  Len- 
hart's  house  in  London." 

"  Are  you  not  very  dull?" 

Alas  for  the  excitable  nature  of  my  own  tempera- 
ment !  I  was  sure  I  should  be  dull  in  her  place,  though 
I  had  never  felt  it  until  my  violin  came  upon  me, 
stealthy  and  stirring  as  first  love.  She  looked  at  me 
with  serene  wonder. 

"I  don't  know  what  'dull'  means.  I  do  not  want 
anything  I  have  not  got,  because  I  shall  have  everything 
I  want,  —  some  day,  I  mean ;  and  I  would  rather  not 
have  all  at  once." 

I  did  not  think  anything  could  be  wanting  to  her, 
indeed,  in  loveliness  or  aspiration,  for  my  religious  be- 
lief was  in  both  for  her ;  still  I  fancied  it  impossible  she 


LAURA    TO   GO    TO  PARIS.  1 89 

should  not  sometimes  feel  impatient,  and  especially  as 
those  blue  shadows  I  have  mentioned  had  softened  the 
sweetness  of  her  eyes,  and  the  sensation  of  tears  stole 
over  me  as  I  gazed  upon  her. 

"  We  shall  not  practise  much,  I  am  afraid,  Master 
Auchester,  for  I  want  to  talk,  and  I  am  so  silly  that 
when  I  sing,  I  begin  to  cry." 

"  For  pleasure,  I  suppose.     I  always  do." 

"Not  all  for  pleasure.  I  am  vexed,  and  I  do  not 
love  myself  for  being  vexed.  Laura  is  going  to  Paris, 
Master  Auchester,  to  study  under  a  certain  master  there. 
Her  papa  is  going  too,  and  that  woman  I  do  not  like. 
She  is  unhappy  to  leave  me,  but  they  have  filled  her 
head  with  pictures,  and  she  is  wild  for  the  big  theatres. 
She  came  to  see  me  this  morning,  and  I  talked  to  her  a 
long  time.     It  was  that  made  me  cry." 

"  Why,  particularly  ?  " 

"  Because  I  told  her  so  many  things  about  the  sort  of 
people  she  will  see,  and  how  to  know  what  is  beautiful 
in  people  who  are  not  wise.  She  promised  to  come  and 
live  with  me  when  I  have  been  to  Italy,  and  become  a 
singer ;  but  till  then,  I  shall,  perhaps,  never  meet  her, 
for  our  ways  are  not  the  same.  She  looked  with  her 
clear  eyes  right  through  me,  to  see  if  I  was  grave  ;  and 
if  she  only  finds  her  art  is  fair,  I  shall  not  be  afraid  for 
her." 

"  But  is  she  not  ill  ?  I  never  saw  anybody  look  so 
strange." 

"  That  is  because  her  hair  is  shorter.  You  do  not 
hke  her.  Master  Auchester?" 

I  shook  my  shoulders.     "  No  ;  not  a  great  deal." 

"  You  will  try,  please.     She  will  be  an  artist." 

"  But  don't  you  consider,  —  of  course  I  don't  know, 
—  but  don't  you  consider  dancing  the  lowest  art  ?  " 


190  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Oh,  Master  Auchester  !  all  the  arts  help  each  other, 
and  are  all  in  themselves  so  pure  that  we  cannot  say 
one  is  purer  than  the  other.  Besides,  was  it  not  in 
the  dream  of  that  Jew,  in  the  Bible,  that  the  angels 
descended  as  well  as  ascended?" 

"  You  are  like  Martin  Luther." 

*'Whyso?" 

"  Clo  —  that  is  my  clever  sister  —  told  me  what  he 
said  about  the  arts  and  religion." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Davy  tells  that  story." 

"  Miss  Benette,  you  are  very  naughty  !  You  seem  to 
know  everything  that  everybody  says." 

"No;  it  is  because  I  see  so  few  people  that  I  re- 
member all  they  say." 

"  Are  you  not  at  all  fonder  of  music  than  of  dancing  ? 
Oh,  Miss  Benette  !  " 

She  laughed  heartily,  showing  one  or  two  of  her 
twinkhng  teeth. 

"I  am  fonder  of  music  than  of  anything  that  lives 
or  is,  or  rather  I  am  not  fond  of  it  at  all ;  but  it  is 
my  life,  though  I  am  only  a  young  child  in  that  hfe 
at  present.  But  I  am  rather  fond  of  dancing,  I  must 
confess." 

"  I  think  it  is  charming ;  and  I  can  dance  very  well, 
particularly  on  the  top  of  a  wall.  But  I  do  not  care 
about  it,  you  know." 

"  You  mean,  it  is  not  enough  for  you  to  make  you 
either  glad  or  sorry.  But  be  thankful  that  it  is  enough 
for  some  people." 

"All  things  make  me  glad,  and  sorry  too,  I  think, 
going  away  now.     When  I  come  back  —  " 

"  I  shall  be  gone,"  said  Clara. 

"  I  shall  be  a  man  —  " 

"  And  I  an  old  woman  —  " 


VOfVS  OF  FRIEXDSHIP.  191 

"  For  shame,  Miss  Benette  !  you  will  never  grow  old, 
I  believe." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  shall ;  but  I  do  not  mind,  it  will  be  like 
a  summer  to  grow  old." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will !  "  I  cried,  with  an  enthusiasm  that 
seemed  to  surprise  her,  so  unconscious  was  she  ever  of 
any  effect  she  had. 

"  But  I  shall  grow  old  too ;  and  there  is  not  so  very 
much  difference  between  us.  So  then  I  shall  seem  your 
age ;  and,  Miss  Benette,  when  I  do  grow  up,  will  you 
be  my  friend?" 

"  Always,  ^Master  Auchester,  if  you  still  wish  it.  And 
in  my  heart  I  do  believe  that  friends  are  friends  for- 
ever." 

The  sweet  smile  she  gave  me,  the  sweeter  words 
she  spoke,  were  sufficient  to  assure  me  I  should  not  be 
forgotten  ;  and  it  was  all  I  wished,  for  then  my  heart 
was  fixed  upon  my  future. 

"  But  you  uill  not  be  going  to-morrow,  I  suppose  ?  " 

*'  No,  I  \\ish  I  were." 

"  So  do  I." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  I,  rather  disconcerted ;  '•'  I  shall 
go  very  soon,  I  suppose." 

'^  It  \\dll  not  be  long,  I  daresay,"  she  answered,  with 
another  sweetest  smile  ;  and  I  felt  it  to  be  her  kind  wish 
for  me,  and  was  consoled.  And  when  I  left  her  she 
was  standing  quietly  by  her  piano ;  nor  did  she  raise 
her  eyes  to  follow  me  to  the  door. 

By  one  of  those  curious  chances  that  befall  some 
people  more  than  others,  I  had  a  cold  the  next  class- 
night.  I  was  in  an  extremity  of  passion  to  be  kept  at 
home,  —  that  is  to  say,  I  rolled  in  my  stifling  bed  with 
the  sulks  pressing  heavily  on  my  heart,  and  the  head- 
ache  upon   my  forehead.     Millicent   sat  by   me,  and 


192  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

laughingly  assured  me  I  should  soon  be  quite  well  again ; 
I  solemnly  averred  I  should  never  be  well,  should  never 
get  up,  should  never  see  Davy  any  more,  never  go  to  Ger- 
many. But  I  went  to  sleep  after  all ;  for  Davy,  with  his 
usual  philanthropy,  came  all  the  way  up  to  the  house  to 
inquire  for  me  after  the  class,  and  his  voice  aroused  and 
soothed  me  together.  I  may  say  that  such  a  cold  was  a 
godsend  just  then,  as  it  prevented  my  having  to  do  any 
lessons.  The  next  day,  being  idle,  I  heard  nothing  of 
Davy ;  neither  the  next.  I  thought  it  very  odd  ;  but  on 
the  third  morning  I  was  permitted  to  go  out,  as  it  was 
very  clear  and  bright.  The  smoke  looked  beautiful, 
almost  like  another  kind  of  flame,  as  it  swelled  skywards, 
and  I  met  Davy  quite  glowing  with  exercise. 

"  What  a  day  for  December  ! "  said  he,  and  cheerily 
held  up  a  letter. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Davy !  "  I  cried ;  but  he  would  not  suffer 
me  even  to  read  the  superscription. 

''First  for  your  mother.  Will  you  turn  back  and 
walk  home  with  me?" 

*'  I  must  not,  sir ;  I  am  to  walk  to  the  turnpike  and 
back." 

"  Away,  then  !  and  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it." 

To  do  myself  justice,  I  did  not  even  run.  I  could, 
indeed,  for  all  my  impatient  hope,  scarcely  help  feeling 
there  is  no  such  blessing  as  pure  fresh  air  that  fans  a 
brow  whose  fever  has  lately  faded.  I  came  at  length  to 
the  toll-gate,  and  returned,  braced  for  any  adventure, 
to  the  door  of  my  own  home.  I  flew  into  the  parlor ; 
my  mother  and  Davy  were  alone.  My  mother  was 
wiping  off  a  tear  or  two,  and  he  seemed  smiling  on 
purpose. 

"  Oh,  mother  ! "  I  exclaimed,  running  up  to  her, 
"please  don't  cry." 


A   LETTER  FROM  S ANTONIO.  1 93 

"  My  dear  Charles,  you  are  a  silly  little  boy.  After 
all,  what  will  you  do  in  Germany?" 

She  lifted  me  upon  her  lap.  Davy  walked  up  to  the 
book-case. 

"  I  find,  Charles,  that  you  must  go  immediately,  — 
and,  indeed,  it  will  be  best  if  you  travel  with  Mr.  San- 
tonio.  And  how  could  I  send  you  alone,  with  such  an 
opportunity-  to  be  taken  care  of!  Mr.  Davy,  will  you 
have  the  kindness  to  read  that  letter  to  my  little  boy?  " 

Davy,  thus  admonished,  gathered  up  the  letter  now 
lying  open  upon  the  table,  and  began  to  read  it  quite  in 
his  class  voice,  as  if  we  two  had  been  an  imposing 
audience. 

Dear  Madam,  —  Although  I  have  not  had  the  pleasure 
of  an  introduction  to  you,  I  think  the  certificate  of  my  cog- 
nizance by  my  friend  Davy  will  be  sufficient  to  induce  you 
to  allow  me  to  take  charge  of  your  son  at  the  end  of  this 
week,  if  he  can  then  be  ready,  as  I  must  leave  England 
then,  and  return  to  Paris  by  the  middle  of  February.  Be- 
tween this  journey  and  that  time  I  shall  be  in  Germany  to 
attend  the  examinations  of  the  Cecilia  School  at  Lorbeer- 
stadt.i  The  Cecilia  School  now  is  exactly  the  place  for 
your  son,  though  he  is  six  months  too  young  to  be  ad- 
mitted. At  the  same  time,  if  he  is  to  be  admitted  at  all, 
he  should  at  once  be  placed  under  direct  training,  and  there 
are  out-professors  who  undertake  precisely  this  responsi- 
bility. My  own  experience  proves  that  anything  is  better 
than  beginning  too  late,  or  beginning  too  soon  to  work 
alone.  I  have  made  every  inquiry  which  could  be  a  proviso 
with  you. 

"  Then  here  follows  what  would  scarcely  interest  you," 
said  Davy,  breaking  off. 

1  The   Cecilia   School  at  Lorbeerstadt  is  probably  intended 
to  represent  the  Conservatory  at  Leipsic,  which  Mendelssohn 
founded  in  1843. 
VOL.  I.  — 13 


194  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"Your  friend  is  quite  right,  Charles.  Now  can  you 
say  you  are  sure  I  may  put  faith  in  you  ?  " 

"What  do  you  mean,  mother?  If  you  mean  that  I 
am  to  practise,  indeed  I  will ;  I  never  want  to  do  any- 
thing else,  and  I  won't  have  any  money  to  spend." 

Davy  came  up  to  us  and  smiled  :  "  I  really  think  he 
is  safe.  You  will  let  him  come  to  me  one  evening,  dear 
madam  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  can  come  to  us.  I  really  do  not  think 
we  can  spare  him  ;  we  have  so  much  to  do  in  the  way  of 
preparation." 

It  was  an  admirable  providence  that  my  whole  time 
was,  from  morning  to  night,  taken  up  with  my  family. 
My  sisters,  assisted  by  Margareth,  made  me  a  dozen 
shirts,  and  hemmed  for  me  three  dozen  handkerchiefs. 
I  was  being  measured  or  fitted  all  day,  and  all  the 
evening  was  running  up  and  down  stairs  with  the  com- 
pleted items.  Oh  !  if  you  had  seen  my  boxes  you 
would  have  said  that  I  ought  to  be  very  good  to  be  so 
cared  for,  and  very  beautiful  besides ;  yet  I  was  neither, 
and  was  sorely  longing  to  be  away,  —  such  kindness  pained 
me  more  than  it  pleased.  I  had  a  little  jointed  bed, 
which  you  would  not  have  believed  was  a  bed  until  it  was 
set  up.  My  mother  admonished  me  if  I  found  my  bed 
comfortable  to  keep  that  in  my  box ;  but  she  had  some 
experience  of  German  beds,  and  English  ones  too,  un- 
der certain  circumstances.  I  had  a  gridiron,  and  a  cof- 
fee-pot, a  spirit-lamp,  and  a  case  containing  one  knife 
and  fork,  one  plate,  one  spoon.  I  had  everything  I 
could  possibly  want,  and  felt  dreadfully  bewildered.  Clo 
was  marking  my  stockings  one  morning  when  Davy 
came  in ;  he  gave  me  one  of  his  little  brown  boxes,  and 
in  the  box  was  a  single  cup  and  saucer  of  that  glowing, 
delicate  china.     When  he  pulled  it  out  of  his  pocket  I 


DA  VY  HAS  AN  ENGA  GEMENT  IN  L  ON  DON.     1 95 

little  knew  what   it  was,  and  when  I  found  out,  how  I 
cried  ! 

''  I  have,  indeed,  brought  you  a  small  remembrance, 
Charles ;  but  I  am  a  small  man,  and  you  are  a  small 
boy,  and  I  understand  you  are  to  have  a  very  small 
establishment." 

He  said  this  cheerily,  but  I  could  not  laugh ;  he  put 
his  kind  arm  round  me,  and  I  only  wept  the  more.  Clo 
was  all  the  time  quite  seriously,  as  I  have  said,  tracing 
ineffaceably  my  initials  in  German  text,  with  crimson 
cotton,  —  none  of  your  delible  inks,  —  and  Davy  pre- 
tended to  be  very  much  interested  in  them. 

"What !  all  those  stockings,  Charles?" 

"  Yes,  sir  :  you  see  we  have  provided  for  summer  and 
winter,"  responded  Clo,  as  seriously  as  I  have  mentioned. 
"  He  will  not  want  any  till  we  see  him  again,  for  he  is  to 
pay  us  a  visit,  if  God  spares  him,  next  Christmas." 

Davy  sighed,  and  kissed  my  forehead ;  I  clung  to 
him.     "  Shall  I  see  you  again,  Mr.  Davy?  " 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  your  mother  whether  I  may  take 
you  to  London ;  it  is  precisely  what  I  came  for,  and  I 
have  a  little  plan." 

Davy  had  actually  an  engagement  in  London,  or 
feigned  to  have  one,  —  I  have  never  been  able  to  discover 
whether  it  was  a  fact  or  a  fiction  ;  and  he  proposed  to  my 
mother  that  I  should  sleep  with  him  at  his  aunt's  house 
one  night  before  I  was  deposited  at  the  hotel  where  San- 
tonio  rested,  and  to  which  he  had  advised  I  should  be 
brought. 

I  was  in  fits  of  delight  at  the  idea  of  Da\7's  company ; 
yet,  after  all,  I  did  not  have  much  of  that,  for  he  trav- 
elled to  London  on  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  I  was  an 
inside  passenger  at  my  mother's  request. 

Then  comes  a  sleep  of  memor}',  not  unaccompanied 


196  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

by  dreams,  — a  dream  of  being  hurled  into  a  corner  by  a 
lady,  and  of  jamming  myself  so  that  I  could  not  stir 
hand  or  foot  between  her  and  the  window ;  a  dream 
of  desperate  efforts  to  extricate  myself;  a  dream  of 
sudden  respite,  cold  air,  and  high  stars  beyond  and  above 
the  houses,  a  cracked  horn,  a  flashing  lantern  ;  a  dream 
of  dark  in  a  hackney-coach,  and  of  stopping  in  a  stilly 
street  before  a  many- windowed  mansion,  as  it  seemed 
to  me.  Then  I  am  aware  to  this  hour  of  a  dense  head- 
ache, and  bones  almost  knotted  together,  till  there  ar- 
rives the  worst  nightmare  reality  can  breed,  —  the  smell 
of  toast,  muffins,  and  tea ;  the  feeling  of  a  knife  and 
fork  you  cannot  manage  for  sleepfulness  ;  and  the  utter 
depression  of  your  quicksilver. 

I  could  not  even  look  at  Miss  Lenhart ;  but  I  heard 
that  her  voice  was  going  on  all  the  time,  and  felt  that 
she  looked  at  me  now  and  then.  I  was  conveyed  into 
bed  by  Davy  without  any  exercise  on  my  own  part, 
and  I  slumbered  in  that  sleep  which  absorbs  all  time,  till 
very  bright  day.  Then  I  awoke  and  found  myself  alone, 
though  Davy  had  left  a  neat  impression  in  the  great  soft 
bed.  Presently  I  heard  his  steps,  and  his  fingers  on  the 
lock.  He  brought  my  breakfast  in  his  own  hand,  and 
while  I  forced  myself  to  partake  of  it,  he  told  me  he 
should  carry  me  to  Santonio  at  two  o'clock,  the  steam- 
boat leaving  London  Bridge  at  six  the  same  evening. 
And  at  two  o'clock  we  arrived  at  the  hotel.  In  a  lofty 
apartment  sat  Santonio  near  a  table  laid  for  dinner. 

I  beheld  my  boxes  in  one  comer,  and  my  violin-case 
strapped  to  the  largest ;  but  all  Santonio's  luggage  con- 
sisted of  that  case  of  his  which  had  been  wrapped  up 
warm  in  baize,  and  one  portmanteau.  He  arose  and  wel- 
comed us  with  a  smile  most  amiable  ;  and  ha\dng  shaken 
hands  with  Davy,  took  hold  of  both  mine  and  held  them, 


LONDON  BRIDGE.  1 97 

while  still  rallying  in  a  few  words  about  our  punctuality. 
Then  he  rang  for  dinner,  and  I  made  stupendous  efforts 
not  to  be  a  baby,  which  I  should  not  have  been  sorry  to 
find  myself  at  that  instant.  The  two  masters  talked  to 
gether  without  noticing  me,  and  presently  I  recovered ; 
but  only  to  be  put  upon  the  sofa,  which  was  soft  as  a 
powder-puff,  and  told  to  go  to  sleep.  I  made  magnifi- 
cent determinations  to  keep  awake,  but  in  vain  ;  and  it 
was  just  as  well  I  could  not,  though  I  did  not  think  so 
when  I  awoke.  For  just  then  starting  and  sitting  up,  I 
beheld  a  lamp  upon  the  table,  and  heard  Santonio's 
voice  in  the  entry,  haranguing  a  waiter  about  a  coach. 
But  looking  round  and  round  into  every  corner  I  saw  no 
Davy,  and  I  cannot  describe  how  I  felt  when  I  found 
he  had  kissed  me  asleep,  and  gone  away  altogether.  As 
Santonio  re-entered,  the  sweet  cordiality  with  which  he 
tempered  his  address  to  me  was  more  painful  than  the 
roughest  demeanor  would  have  been  just  then,  thrilling 
as  I  was  with  the  sympathy  I  had  never  drawn  except 
fi-om  Davy'  s  heart,  and  which  I  had  never  lost  since  I 
had  known  him.  It  was  as  if  my  soul  were  suddenly 
unclad,  and  left  to  writhe  naked  in  a  sunless  atmos- 
phere ;  still  I  am  glad  to  say  I  was  grateful  to  Santonio. 
It  was  about  five  o'clock  when  we  entered  a  hackney- 
coach,  and  were  conveyed  to  the  city  from  the  wide  West 
End.  The  great  river  lay  as  a  leaden  dream  while  we  ran 
across  the  bridge  :  but  how  dreamily,  drowsily,  I  can 
never  describe,  was  conveyed  to  me  that  arched  dark- 
ness spanning  the  lesser  gloom  as  we  turned  down  dank 
sweeping  steps,  and  alighted  amidst  the  heavy  splash  of 
that  rolling  tide.  There  was  a  confusion  and  hurry 
here  that  mazed  my  faculties ;  and  most  dreadfully 
alarmed  I  became  at  the  thought  of  passing  into  that 
vessel  set  so  deep  into  the  water,  and  looking  so  large 


198  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

and  helpless.  I  was  on  board,  however,  before  I  could 
calculate  the  possibiHties  of  running  away,  and  so  getting 
home  again.  Santonio  put  his  arm  around  me  as  I 
crossed  to  the  deck,  and  I  could  not  but  feel  how  care- 
ful the  great  violin  was  of  the  httle  human  instrument 
committed  to  his  care.  Fairly  on  deck,  the  whirling 
and  booming,  the  crowd  not  too  great,  but  so  busy 
and  anxious,  the  head-hung  lamp,  and  the  cheery 
peeps  into  cabins  lighter  still  through  glittering  wires, 
all  gave  motion  to  my  spirit.  I  was  soon  more  excited 
than  ever,  and  glorified  myself  so  much  that  I  very 
nearly  fell  over  the  side  of  the  vessel  into  the  Thames, 
while  I  was  watching  the  wheel  that  every  now  and  then 
gave  a  sleepy  start  from  the  oily,  dark  water.  Santonio 
was  looking  after  our  effects  for  a  while,  but  it  was  he 
who  rescued  me  in  this  instance,  by  pulling  my  great- 
coat (exactly  like  Fred's)  that  had  been  made  expressly, 
for  me  in  the  festival-town,  and  which,  feehng  very  new, 
made  me  think  about  it  a  great  deal  more  than  it  was 
worth.  Then  laughing  heartily,  but  still  not  speaking, 
he  led  me  downstairs.  How  magnificent  I  found  all 
there  !  I  was  quite  overpowered,  never  having  been  in 
any  kind  of  vessel ;  but  what  most  charmed  me  was  a 
glimpse  of  a  second  wonderful  region  within  the  long 
dining-room,  —  the  feminine  retreat,  whose  door  was  a 
little  bit  ajar. 

The  smothered  noise  of  gathering  steam  came  from 
above,  and  most  strange  was  it  to  hear  the  many  footed 
tramp  overhead,  as  we  sat  upon  the  sofa,  and  spread 
beneath  the  oval  windows  all  around.  And  presently  I 
realized  the  long  tables,  and  all  that  there  was  upon 
them,  and  was  especially  delighted  to  perceive  some 
flowers  mounted  upon  the  epergnes. 

I  was  cravingly  hungry  by  this  time,  for  the  first  time 


A   NIGHT  AT  SEA.  1 99 

since  I  had  left  my  home,  and  everything  here  reminded 
me  of  eating.  Santonio,  I  suppose,  anticipated  this  fact, 
for  he  asked  me  immediately  what  I  should  like.  I  said 
I  should  like  some  tea  and  a  sHce  of  cold  meat.  He 
seemed  amused  at  my  choice,  and  while  he  drank  a  glass 
of  some  wine  or  other  and  ate  a  crust,  I  had  all  to  my- 
self a  htde  round  tray,  with  a  short,  stout  tea-pot  and 
enormous  breakfast  cup  set  before  me ;  with  butter  as 
white  as  milk,  and  cream  as  thick  as  butter,  the  butter 
being  developed  in  a  tiny  pat,  with  the  semblance  of  the 
steamship  we  were  then  in  stamped  upon  the  top ;  also 
a  plate  covered  with  meat  all  over,  upon  beginning  to 
clear  which,  I  discovered  another  cartoon  in  blue  of  the 
same  subject.  After  getting  to  the  bottom  of  the  cup, 
and  a  quarter  uncovering  the  plate,  I  could  do  no  more 
in  that  hne,  and  Santonio  asked  me  what  I  should  like  to 
do  about  sleeping.  I  was  startled,  for  I  had  not  thought 
about  the  coming  night  at  all.  He  led  me  on  the  instant 
to  a  certain  other  door,  and  bade  me  peep  in ;  I  could 
only  think  of  a  picture  I  had  seen  of  some  catacombs, 
—  in  fact,  I  think  a  catacomb  preferable  in  every  respect 
to  a  sleeping  cabin.  The  odors  that  rushed  out,  of 
brandy  and  lamp-oil,  were  but  visionary  terrors  compared 
with  the  aspect  of  those  supernaturally  constructed  en- 
closed berths,  in  not  a  few  of  which  the  \ictims  of  that 
entombment  had  already  deposited  themselves. 

"  1  can't  sleep  in  there ! "  I  said  shudderingly  as  I 
withdrew,  and  \s'ith drawing,  was  inexpressibly  revived 
by  the  air  blowing  down  the  staircase.  "  Oh,  let  us  sit 
up  all  night  I  on  the  sea  too  !  " 

Santonio  replied,  with  great  cordiality,  that  he  should 
prefer  such  an  arrangement  to  any  other,  and  would  see 
what  could  be  contrived  for  me. 

And  so  he  did  ;  and  I  can  never  surpass  my  own  sen- 


200  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

sations  of  mere  satisfaction  as  I  lay  upon  a  seat  on  deck 
by  ten  o'clock,  with  a  boat-cloak  for  my  pillow  and  a 
tarpaulin  over  my  feet,  Santonio  by  my  side,  with  a 
cloak  all  over  him  like  a  skin,  his  feet  on  his  fiddle-case, 
and  an  exquisitely  fragrant  regalia  in  his  mouth. 

My  feehngs  soon  became  those  of  careering  ecstasy, 
—  careering  among  stars  all  clear  in  the  darkness  over  us ; 
of  passionate  delight,  rocked  to  a  dream  by  the  undula- 
tion I  began  to  perceive  in  our  seaward  motion.  I  fell 
asleep  about  midnight,  and  woke  again  at  dawn ;  but  I 
experienced  just  enough  then  of  existing  circumstances 
in  our  position  to  retreat  again  beneath  the  handkerchief 
I  had  spread  upon  my  face,  and  again  I  slept  and 
dreamed. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AT  noon,  when  at  length  I  roused  myself,  we  were 
no  longer  upon  the  sea.  We  swept  on  tranquilly 
between  banks  more  picturesque,  more  glorious,  more 
laden  with  spells  for  me,  than  any  haven  I  had  fortified 
with  Spanish  castles.  Castles  there  were  too,  or  what  I 
took  for  castles,  —  silvery  gray  amidst  leafless  trees,  and 
sometimes  softest  pine  woods  with  their  clinging  mist. 
Then  came  shining  country,  where  the  sky  met  the  sun- 
bright  slopes,  and  then  a  quiet  sail  at  rest  in  the  tiny 
harbor.  But  an  hour  or  two  brought  me  to  the  idea  of 
cities,  though  even  they  were  as  cities  in  a  dream.  And 
yet  this  was  not  the  Rhine ;  but  I  made  sure  it  was  so, 
having  forgotten  Clo's  geography  lessons,  and  that  there 
could  be  any  other  river  in  Germany,  —  so  that  when 
Santonio  told  me  its  real  name  I  was  very  angry  at  it. 
After  I  had  wearied  myself  with  gazing,  he  drew  me 
back  to  my  seat,  and  began  to  speak  more  consecutively 
than  he  had  done  yet. 

"  Now,  sir,"  said  he,  *'  do  you  see  that  castle  ?  "  point- 
ing to  something  in  the  prospect  which  may  or  may  not 
have  been  a  castle,  but  which  I  immediately  realized 
as  one.  "You  are  to  be  shut  up  there.  Really  and 
seriously,  you  have  more  faith  than  any  one  I  ever 
had  the  honor  of  introducing  yet,  under  any  circum- 
stances whatever.  Pray  don't  you  feel  any  curiosity 
about  your  destination?" 


202  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"Yes,  sir,  plenty ;  but  I  forgot  what  I  was  going  for." 

"  And  where  you  were  going  to  ?  " 

*'  Sir,  I  did  not  know  where.  I  thought  you  would 
tell  me  when  you  liked." 

"  I  don't  know  myself,  but  I  daresay  we  shall  fall  in 
with  your  favorite  '  Chevalier.'  " 

"My  favorite  who,  sir?" 

"The  gentleman  who  enslaved  you  at  the  perfor- 
mance of  the  'Messiah,*  in  your  part  of  the  world." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  what  can  I  ever  say  to  you  ?  I  cannot 
bear  it." 

"  Cannot  bear  what?  Nay,  you  must  not  expect  too 
much  of  him  now  you  know  who  he  is.  He  is  merely 
a  very  clever  composer." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  how  did  you  ever  find  out?  " 

"  By  writing  to  Milans- Andre,  —  another  idol  for  you, 
by  the  way." 

"  Oh  !  I  know  all  about  Milans- Andr^." 

"  Indeed  !  and  pray  what  is  all  about  him  ?  " 

"  I  know  he  plays  wonderfully,  and  fills  a  large  theatre 
with  one  pianoforte.  Stop !  He  has  a  handsome  face 
and  long  arms,  —  rather  too  long  for  his  body.  He  is 
very —  let  me  see  —  something,  but  not  something  else  ; 
very  famous,  but  not  beloved." 

"  Who  told  you  that?  A  most  coherent  description,  as 
it  happens." 

"Miss  Lawrence." 

"  Miss  Lawrence  is  a  blab.  So  you  have  no  curiosity 
to  learn  your  fate?" 

"  I  know  that ;  but  I  should  like  to  know  where  I  am 
going." 

"  To  an  old  gentleman  in  a  hollow  gave." 

"  I  wish  I  were,  and  then  perhaps  he  would  teach  me 
to  make  gold." 


DISCIPLINE.  203 

"  That  is  like  a  Jew,  fie  !  But  the  fiddle  has  made 
gold." 

"Why  like  a  Jew?  Because  they  are  rich,  — Jews,  I 
mean  ?  " 

"  Richer  generally  than  most  folks,  but  not  all  either." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  I  did  not  mean  money."  But  as  I  looked  at 
him,  I  felt  he  would  not,  could  not,  understand  what  I 
meant,  so  I  returned  to  the  former  charge. 

"Does  he  Uve  in  a  cellar,  sir,  or  in  a  very  old 
house?" 

"  In  an  old  house,  certainly.  But  you  won't  hke 
him,  Auchester,  —  at  least  not  at  first ;  only  he  will  work 
you  rightly,  and  take  care  of  your  morals  and  health." 

"How,  sir?" 

"  By  locking  you  up  when  you  are  at  home,  and  send- 
ing you  to  walk  out  every  day." 

"  Don't  they  all  send  the  boys  out  to  walk  in  Germany 
then?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  But  how  shall  you  like  being  locked 
up?" 

"  In  the  dark,  sir,  do  you  mean?" 

"  No,  boy ;  to  practise  in  a  httle  cave  of  your  own." 

"  What  does  make  you  call  it  a  cave  ?  " 

"  Because  great  treasures  are  hidden  there  for  such  as 
like  the  bore  of  grubbing  them  up.  You  have  no  idea, 
by  the  way,  how  much  dirty  work  there  is  to  do  any- 
thing at  all  in  music." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean,  to  get  at  anything.  But  it 
cannot  be  worse  than  what  people  go  through  to  get  to 
heaven." 

"  If  that  is  your  notion,  you  are  all  right.  I  have 
taken  some  trouble  to  get  you  into  this  place,  for  the  old 
gentleman  is  a  whimsical  one,  and  takes  very  few  pupils 
now." 


204  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Did  you  know  him,  sir,  before  you  heard  of  him  for 
me?" 

"  He  taught  me  all  I  know,  except  what  I  taught  my- 
self, and  that  was  preciously  little.  But  that  was  before 
he  came  to  Lorbeerstadt.  I  knew  nothing  about  this 
place.  Your  favorite  learned  of  him  when  he  was  your 
age,  and  long  afterwards." 

"Who,  sir,  — the  same?" 

"  The  conductor." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  It  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  feel  I  had,  as 
it  were,  got  hold  of  him  and  lost  him  again ;  but  San- 
tonio's  manner  was  such  that  I  did  not  think  he  could 
mean  the  same  person. 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  the  same,  Mr.  Santonio  ?  "  I  reiter- 
ated again,  and  yet  again,  while  my  companion,  whose 
laugh  had  passed  into  a  yawn,  was  gazing  at  the  smoke. 

*'  Sure  ?  Of  course  I  am  sure.  I  know  every  con- 
ductor in  Europe." 

"I  daresay  you  do,  sir;  but  this  is  not  a  common 
conductor." 

"  No  conductors  are  common,  my  friend.  He  is  very 
clever,  a  genius  too,  and  will  do  a  great  deal ;  but  he  is 
too  young  at  present  to  be  talked  of  without  caution." 

"Why,  sir?" 

"  Because  we  may  spoil  him." 

I  was  indignant,  I  was  sick,  but  so  impotent  I  could 
only  say,  "Sir,  has  he  ever  heard 7^2/  play?" 

"  I  cannot  tell  really  all  the  people  who  hear  me  play. 
I  don't  know  who  they  are  in  pubhc." 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  him  play?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  sir!  then  how  can  you  know?  What  makes 
you  call  him  Chevalier  ?     Is  that  his  real  name  ?  " 

"  I   tell  you   precisely   what   I   was   told,    my  boy ; 


WE  LAND.  205 

Milans-Andre  calls  him  '  My  young  friend  the  Chevalier,' 
—  nothing  else.     Most  likely  they  gave  him  the  order." 

Santonio  was  now  talking  Dutch  to  me,  and  yet  I 
could  not  bring  myself  to  detain  him  by  further  question- 
ing, for  he  had  strolled  to  the  staircase.  Soon  afterwards 
the  dinner-bell  rang.  The  afternoon  being  a  little  spent, 
we  came  up  again  and  rested.  It  was  twilight  now,  and 
my  heart  throbbed  as  it  ever  does  in  that  intermediate 
dream.  Soon  Santonio  retired  to  smoke,  and  I  then  lay 
all  along  a  seat,  and  looked  to  heaven  until  I  fell  into  a 
doze ;  and  all  I  felt  was  real,  and  I  knew  less  of  what 
was  passing  around  me  than  of  that  which  stirred  within. 
Long  it  may  have  been,  but  it  seemed  very  soon  and 
suddenly  that  I  was  rudely  brought  to  myself  by  a  sound 
and  skurry,  and  a  suspension  of  our  progress.  It  was 
dark  and  bleak  besides,  and  as  foggy  as  I  had  ever  seen 
it  in  England,  —  the  lamp  at  our  head  was  like  a  moon  ; 
and  all  about  me  there  were  shapes,  not  sights,  of  houses, 
and  echoes,  not  sounds,  of  voices  from  the  shore. 

The  shore,  indeed  !  And  my  first  impression  of  Ger- 
many was  one  of  simple  astonishment  to  find  it,  on  the 
whole,  so  much  Hke,  or  so  little  unhke,  England.  I  told 
Santonio  so  much,  as  he  stood  next  me,  and  curbed 
me  with  his  arm  from  going  forwards.  He  answered 
that  he  supposed  I  thought  they  all  lived  in  fiddle-cases 
and  slept  upon  pianofortes.  I  was  longing  to  land  in- 
definably. I  knew  not  where  I  was,  how  near  or  how 
far  from  my  appointed  place  of  rest.  I  will  not  say  my 
heart  was  sad,  it  was  only  sore,  to  find  Santonio,  though 
so  handsome,  not  quite  so  beautiful  a  spirit  as  my  first 
friend,  Lenhart  Davy.  We  watched  almost  half  the  pas- 
sengers out  of  the  boat ;  the  rest  were  to  continue  their 
fresh- water  route  to  a  large  city  far  away,  and  we  were 
the  last  to  land  of  all  who  landed  there. 


206  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

In  less  than  an  hour,  thanks  to  Santonio's  quickening 
of  the  pulses  of  existence  at  our  first  landing-place,  we 
were  safe  in  a  hackney-coach  (very  unlike  any  other 
conveyance),  if  indeed  it  could  be  called  "safe"  to  be 
so  bestowed,  as  I  was  continually  precipitated  against 
Santonio.  His  violin-case  had  never  left  his  hand  since 
we  quitted  the  vessel,  —  and  this  was  just  as  well,  for  it 
might  have  suffered  from  the  jolting.  Its  master  was  all 
kindness  now.  "Cheer  up,"  said  he;  "do  not  let  your 
idea  of  German  hfe  begin  here.  You  will  soon  find 
plenty  to  amuse  you."  He  rubbed  the  reeking  fog  from 
one  glass  with  his  handkerchief  forthwith,  and  I,  peeping 
out,  saw  something  of  houses  drawing  near.  They  were 
dim  and  tall  and  dark,  as  if  they  had  never  fronted 
daylight.  It  took  us  quite  half  an  hour  to  reach  the 
village,  notwithstanding,  for  our  pace  was  laboriously 
tardy ;  and  again  and  again  I  wished  I  had  stayed  with 
Santonio  at  the  little  inn  where  we  took  the  coach,  and 
to  which  he  was  himself  to  return  to  sleep,  having  be- 
spoken a  bed  there  ;  for  I  felt  that  day  would  have  done 
everything  for  me  in  manning  and  spiriting  me,  and 
that  there  was  too  much  mystery  in  my  transition  state 
already  to  bear  the  surcharging  mystery  of  night  with 
thought  undaunted.  Coming  into  that  first  street,  I  be- 
lieved we  should  stop  every  instant,  for  the  faint  few 
lamps,  strung  here  and  there,  gave  me  a  notion  of 
gabled  windows  and  gray-black  arches,  nothing  more 
definite  than  any  dream  ;  so  much  the  better.  Still  we 
stopped  not  anywhere  in  that  region,  nor  even  when, 
having  passed  the  market-place  with  its  Httle  colonnade, 
we  turned,  or  were  shaken,  into  a  quiet  square.  It 
came  upon  me  like  a  nook  of  panorama ;  but  I  heard 
the  splash  of  falling  water  before  I  beheld,  starting  from 
the  mist,  its  shape,  as  it  poured  into  a  basin  of  shadowy 


A  MO  UN  TAIN  CONTAINING  MANY  CAVES.     20/ 

stone  beneath  a  skeleton  tree,  whose  lowest  sprays  I 
could  have  touched  as  we  drove  near  the  fountain,  so 
close  we  came.  And  then  I  saw  before  me  a  church, 
and  could  discern  the  stately  steps  and  portico,  even  the 
crosses  on  the  graves,  which  bade  me  remember  that 
they  died  also  in  Germany.  No  organ  echoes  pealed, 
or  choral  song  resounded,  no  chime  struck ;  but  my 
heart  beat  all  these  tunes,  and  for  the  first  time  I  as- 
sociated the  feeling  of  religion  with  any  earth-built 
shrine. 

It  was  in  a  street  beyond  the  square,  and  overlooked 
by  the  tower  of  the  church  itself,  that  at  length  we 
stopped  indeed,  and  that  I  found  myself  bewildered  at 
once  by  darkness  and  expectation,  standing  upon  the 
pavement  before  a  foreign  doorway,  enough  for  any 
picture  of  the  brain. 

"  Now,"  said  my  escort,  "  I  will  take  you  upstairs 
first,  —  for  you  would  never  find  your  way, —  and  then 
return  and  see  after  all  these  things.  The  man  won't 
run  away  with  them,  I  believe,  —  he  is  too  ugly  to  be 
anything  but  honest.  I  hope  you  do  not  expect  a  foot- 
man to  open  the  door?  " 

''  I  dislike  footmen,  but  there  is  no  knocker.  Please 
show  me  the  bell,  Mr.  Santonio." 

"Please  remember  that  this  is  a  mountain  which  con- 
tains many  caves  besides  that  to  which  we  are  about 
to  commit  you.  And  if  you  interfere  with  anybody 
else's  cave,  the  inhabitant  will  spring  up  yours  with 
gunpowder." 

"  I  know  that  a  great  many  people  live  in  one  house, 
—  my  mother  said  so ;  but  she  never  told  me  how  you 
got  into  the  houses." 

^'  I  will  tell  you  now.  You  see  the  bells  here,  like 
organ-stops  :   this  is  yours.     Number  I  cannot  read,  but 


208  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

I  know  it  from  the  description  I  took  care  to  procure. 
I  will  ring  now,  and  they  will  let  us  in." 

I  found,  after  waiting  in  profound  expectation,  that  the 
door  had  set  itself  open,  just  as  the  gate  of  the  London 
Temple  Garden  is  wont  to  do ;  but  instead  of  finding 
access  to  sunshine  and  beds  of  flowers,  we  were  plunged, 
on  our  entrance,  into  darkness  which  might  be  felt. 

Santonio,  evidently  accustomed  to  all  conventionali- 
ties of  all  countries,  expressed  no  astonishment,  and  did 
not  even  grumble,  as  I  should  have  expected  a  person 
of  his  temperament  to  do.  I  was  so  astonished  that  I 
could  not  speak.  How  soon  I  learned  to  love  that  very 
darkness,  and  to  leap  up  and  down  those  very  stairs 
even  in  the  darkness  !  though  I  now  held  Santonio's 
hand  so  tightly  that  I  could  feel  the  hssom  muscles 
double  up  and  bend  in.  He  drew  me  after  him  gently 
and  carefully  to  the  first  floor,  and  again  to  the  second 
without  speaking,  and  then  we  stood  still  to  take 
breath. 

"That  was  a  pull !  "  he  observed.  "  Suppose  the  old 
gentleman  has  gone  to  bed?" 

"  Oh,  sir  !  then  I  will  go  back  with  you  until  to- 
morrow." 

"  No,  indeed."  He  laid  hold  upon  my  arm.  "  Listen ! 
hush  !  " 

I  stood  listening  from  head  to  foot.  I  heard  the 
beloved  but  unfamiliar  voice;  creeping  down  another 
story,  it  came  —  my  violin,  or  the  violin,  somewhere  up 
in  the  clouds.  I  longed  to  rush  fonvard  now,  and  pos- 
itively ran  up  the  stairs  yet  remaining.  There  upon  my 
one  hand  was  the  door  through  whose  keyhole,  whose 
every  crack,  that  sound  had  streamed,  and  I  knew  it  as 
I  passed,  and  waited  for  Santonio  upon  the  haunted 
precinct. 


A   FOREIGN  ROOM.  20g 

"Now/'  said  he,  arriving  very  leisurely  at  the  top, 
"we  shall  go  in  to  see  the  old  gentleman." 

"  Will  he  have  a  beard,  sir,  as  he  is  a  Jew  ?  " 

"Who  told  you  he  has  a  Jew-beard?  Neverthe- 
less he  has  a  beard;  but  pray  hold  your  tongue 
about  the  Jews,  —  at  least  till  you  know  him  a  little 
better." 

"  I  do  not  mean,"  thought  I  diffidently,  "to  talk  to  the 
old  gentleman.  If  he  is  a  Jew  I  shall  know  it,  and  it 
will  be  enough ; "  but  I  did  not  say  so  to  Santonio,  who 
did  not  appear  to  prize  his  lineage  as  I  did  the  half  of 
mine.  My  heart  began  to  beat  faster  than  from  the 
steep  ascent,  when  he,  without  preparing  me  further, 
rapped  very  vigorously  upon  another  unseen  door.  I 
heard  no  voice  reply,  but  I  concluded  he  did,  as  he 
deliberately  turned  the  lock,  and  drew  me  immediately 
after  him  as  I  had  shrunk  behind  him.  I  need  not 
have  been  afraid,  —  the  room  was  empty.  It  was  a 
room  full  of  dusky  light ;  that  is,  all  tones  which  blended 
into  it  were  dim,  and  its  quaint  nicety  put  every  new- 
world  notion  out  of  the  way  for  the  time.  The  candles 
upon  the  table  were  brightly  trimmed,  but  not  wax,  — 
only  slender  wax  ones  beamed  in  twisted  sconces  from 
the  desk  of  an  organ  that  took  up  the  whole  side  of  the 
room,  opposing  us  as  we  entered,  and  whose  pipes  were 
to  my  imagining  childhood  lost  in  the  clouds,  indeed, 
for  the  roof  of  the  room  had  been  broken  to  admit  them. 
The  double  key-board,  open,  glittered  black  and  white, 
and  I  was  only  too  glad  to  be  able  to  examine  it  as 
closely  as  I  wished.  The  room  had  no  carpet,  but  I 
did  not  miss  it  or  want  it,  for  the  floor  was  satin  bright 
with  polish,  and  its  general  effect  was  ebony,  while  that 
of  the  furniture  was  oak.  There  was  a  curious  large 
closet  in  a  corner,  like  another  httle  room  put  away  into 
VOL.  I. — 14 


2IO  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

this  one ;  but  what  surprised  me  most  was  that  the 
chamber  was  left  to  itself. 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Santonio,  appealing  to  the 
silence ;  but  then  he  seemed  to  be  reminded,  and 
shouted  very  loud  in  German  some  name  I  could  not 
realize,  but  which  I  write,  having  since  realized. 
"  Aronach  !  ^  where  art  thou  ?  " 

In  German,  and  very  loud,  a  voice  rephed,  as  coming 
down  the  organ-pipes  :  "  I  am  aloft  chastising  an  evil 
spirit ;  nor  will  I  descend  until  I  have  packed  the  devil 
downstairs."  At  this  instant,  more  at  hand  than  the 
sound  I  had  met  upon  the  staircase,  there  was  a  wail  as 
of  a  violin  in  pain  ;  but  I  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  a 
fiddle  or  a  child,  until  the  wail,  in  continuing,  shifted 
from  semitone  to  semitone. 

Santonio  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs  and  laughed ; 
then  arose,  having  recovered  himself,  and  observed,  "  If 
this  is  his  behavior,  I  may  as  well  go  and  see  after  your 
boxes.  Keep  yourself  here  till  I  come  back  ;  but  if  he 
come  down,  salute  him  in  German,  and  it  will  be  all 
right." 

He  retired  and  I  remained ;  and  now  I  resolved  to 
have  another  good  look.  One  side  of  the  room  I  had 
not  yet  examined.  Next  the  door  I  found  a  trio  or 
quartet  of  three-legged  stools,  fixed  one  into  the  other, 
and  nearest  them  a  harpsichord,  —  a  very  harpsichord 
with  crooked  legs.  It  was  covered  with  baize,  and  a 
pile  of  music-books  reposed  upon  the  baize,  besides 
some  antique  instrument-cases.     Other  and  larger  cases 

1  It  is  generally  accepted  that  Aronach  is  a  portrait  of  Zelter, 
the  friend  of  Goethe  and  teacher  of  Mendelssohn,  who  was  for 
many  years  director  of  the  Sing  Akadeniie  at  Berlin.  He  was 
the  first  who  inspired  Mendelssohn  with  his  love  for  John 
Sebastian  Bach's  music. 


A   PORTRAIT  OF  BACH.  211 

were  on  the  floor  beneath  the  harpsichord ;  there  hung 
a  talisman  or  two  of  gUttering  brass  upon  the  wall,  by 
floating  ribbons  of  red. 

Then  I  fastened  myself  upon  the  pictures,  and  those 
strange  wreaths  of  withered  leaves  that  waved  between 
them,  and  whose  searest  hues  befitted  well  their  vicinage. 
As  I  stood  beneath  those  pictures,  those  dead-brown 
garlands  rustled  as  if  my  light  breath  had  been  the 
autumn  wind.  I  was  stricken  at  once  with  melancholy 
and  romance,  but  I  understood  not  clearly  the  precise 
charm  of  those  relics,  or  my  melancholy  would  have  lost 
itself  in  romance  alone. 

There  was  one  portrait  of  Bach.  I  knew  it  again, 
though  it  was  a  worthier  hint  of  him  than  Davy's ;  and 
underneath  that  portrait  was  something  of  the  same 
kind,  which  vividly  fascinated  me  by  its  subject.  It  was 
a  very  young  head,  almost  that  of  an  infant,  lying,  rather 
than  bending,  over  an  oblong  book,  such  in  shape  as 
those  represented  in  pictures  of  literary  cherubs.  The 
face  was  more  than  half  forehead,  which  the  clustering 
locks  could  not  conceal,  though  they  strove  to  shadow ; 
and  in  revenge,  the  hair  swept  back  and  tumbled  side- 
ways, curhng  into  the  very  swell  of  the  tender  shoulder. 
The  countenance  was  of  sun-bright  witchery,  lustrous  as 
an  elf  of  summer  laughing  out  of  a  full-blown  rose.  Tiny 
hands  were  doubled  round  the  book,  and  the  lips  wore 
themselves  a  smile  that  seemed  to  stir  and  dimple,  and 
to  flutter  those  floating  ringlets.  It  was  strange  I  was, 
though  so  unutterably  drawn  to  it,  in  nothing  reminded 
of  any  child  or  man  I  had  ever  seen,  but  merely  thought 
it  an  ideal  of  the  infant  music,  if  music  could  personate 
infancy.  After  a  long,  long  gaze  I  looked  away,  ex- 
pressly to  have  the  delight  of  returning  to  it ;  and  then 
I  saw  the  stove  and  approved  of  it,  instead  of  missing, 


212  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

as  I  was  told  at  home  I  should  miss,  the  hearthrug 
and  roseate  fire-shine.  Indeed,  the  stove  was  much 
more  in  keeping  here,  according  to  my  oudandish 
taste. 

Before  I  returned  to  the  picture  Santonio  re-entered, 
and  finding  me  still  alone,  took  up  a  broom  which  he 
discovered  in  some  region,  and,  mounted  on  a  chair, 
made  with  it  no  very  gentle  demonstrations  upon  the 
ceiling,  which  was  low,  and  which  he  could  thus  easily 
reach.  In  about  ten  minutes  more,  I  could  feel,  no 
less  than  hear,  a  footstep  I  did  not  know,  for  I  am  gen- 
erally cognizant  of  footsteps.  This  was  cautious  and 
slow,  yet  not  heavy ;  and  I  was  aware  it  could  be  none 
other  than  that  of  my  master  presumptive.  If  I  could 
have  turned  myself  into  a  mustard-pot,  to  delay  my  in- 
troduction, I  would  have  done  so  without  the  slightest 
hesitation ;  but  no  !  I  remained  myself,  and  he,  all 
himself,  opened  the  door  and  came  in.  I  had  expected 
a  tall  man,  —  broad;  here  was  a  Httle  gentleman  no 
bigger  than  Davy,  with  a  firm  and  defiant  tread,  clad 
in  a  garment  that  wrapped  about  his  feet,  in  color 
brown,  that  passed  well  into  the  atmosphere  of  his 
cave.  He  confronted  Santonio  as  if  that  wonder  were 
a  little  girl  in  petticoats,  with  no  more  reverence  and 
not  less  benevolence,  for  he  laid  one  arm  upon  his 
shoulder  and  embraced  him,  as  in  England  only  very 
young  and  tender  brothers  embrace,  or  a  son  embraces 
his  father.  There  was  complaisance  together  with  con- 
descension in  his  aspect ;  but  when  he  turned  upon  me, 
both  complaisance  and  condescension  were  overpast, 
and  a  lour  of  indifference  clouded  my  very  faculties  as 
with  a  film  of  worldly  fear.  Then  he  chucked  me  under 
the  chin,  and  held  me  by  it  a  moment  without  my  being 
aware  whether  he  examined  me  or  not,  so  conveniently 


MY  NEW  MASTER.  213 

disposed  were  his  black  eye-lashes ;  and  then  he  let  me 
go  again,  and  turned  his  back  upon  me. 

"  Sit !  "  said  he  to  Santonio  ;  and  then  he  threw  his 
hand  behind  him,  and  pointing,  without  turning  his 
head,  indicated  the  group  of  stools.  I  nervously  disen- 
tangled one  and  sat  down  upon  it  then  and  there  by 
the  side  of  the  very  harpischord.  Santonio  being  also 
seated,  and  wearing,  though  as  cool  as  usual,  a  less 
dominant  aspect,  the  brisk  demon  marched  to  the 
bureau,  which  I  had  taken  little  heed  of,  under  the 
window,  but  which,  upon  his  opening,  I  discovered  to 
be  full  of  all  sorts  of  drawers  aud  pigeon-holes,  where  a 
family  of  young  mice  would  have  enjoyed  a  game  at 
hide-and-seek.  He  stood  there  writing,  without  any 
apology,  for  some  time,  and  only  left  off  when  a  female 
servant,  brilHant  and  stohd  as  a  Dutch  doll,  threw  the 
door  open  again  to  bring  in  supper. 

She  carried  both  tureens  and  dishes,  and  went  into 
the  closet  after  bottles  of  wine  and  a  tablecloth ;  and 
everything  she  did  was  very  orderly,  and  done  very 
quietly.  She  spoke  to  Aronach,  having  arranged  the 
table ;  and  he  arose,  wiped  his  pen,  and  closed  the 
bureau.  Then  he  came  to  Santonio,  and  addressed 
him  in  most  beautiful  clear  German,  such  German  as 
was  my  mother's  mother-tongue. 

"I  travelled  very  comfortably,  thank  you,"  said  San- 
tonio, in  reply  to  some  inquir}^  suggestive  of  the 
journey,  ''and  I  am  glad  to  see  you  younger  than 
ever." 

"  Oh  !  my  sort  don't  die  ;  we  are  tough  as  hempen 
cloth.  It  is  that  make  which  frets  itself  threadbare,"  — 
he  pointed  obviously  at  me.  "  ^^^lat  is  to  be  done  with 
him,  eh?" 

"To  be  left  here,  of  course,  as  we  agreed." 


214  CHARLES  A  UC HESTER. 

"Recollect  my  conditions.  I  turn  him  out  if  he 
become  ill." 

'*  Oh  !  he  is  very  well  indeed ;  they  are  all  pale  in 
England,  they  have  no  sun." 

"  Be  well  then  !  "  said  Aronach,  threateningly,  yet 
not  terrifyingly,  "  and  keep  well !  " 

What  a  silvery  stream  swept  over  his  shirt-bosom  !  it  was 
soft  as  whitest  moonlight.  "  Is  that  a  beard?  "  thought 
I  —  "  how  beautiful  must  the  high-priest  have  looked  !  " 
This  thought  still  touched  me,  when  in  came  a  boy  in  a 
blouse,  and  I  heard  no  more  of  his  practice  as  I  now 
recognized  it,  though  the  wail  still  came  from  above, 
fitful  and  woebegone.  This  boy  was  tall  and  slender, 
and  his  face,  though  he  had  an  elegant  head,  was  too 
formed  and  adult  to  be  agreeable  or  very  taking  for 
me.  His  only  expression  was  that  of  haughty  self-con- 
tent ;  but  there  was  no  real  pride  in  his  bearing,  and  no 
reserve.  His  hands  were  large,  but  very  well  articulated 
and  extremely  white ;  there  was  no  spirit  in  them,  and 
no  spirituality  in  his  aspect.  He  took  no  notice  of  me, 
except  to  curl  his  upper  lip  —  which  was  not  short,  and 
which  a  curl  did  not  become  —  as  he  lifted  a  second 
stool  and  carried  it  up  to  the  table ;  nor  did  he  wait  to 
be  asked  to  sit  down  upon  it,  and  having  done  so,  to 
smooth  his  hair  off  his  forehead  and  lean  his  elbows 
upon  the  table.  Then  Aronach  took  a  chair,  and  ad- 
monished Santonio  to  do  the  same.  The  latter  made 
himself  instantly  at  home,  but  most  charmingly  so,  and 
began  to  help  himself  from  a  dish  directly.  The  young 
gentleman  upon  the  stool  was  just  about  to  lift  the 
cover  from  the  tureen  in  the  same  style,  when  Aronach 
roused,  and  looking  grandly  upon  him  said,  or  rather 
muttered,  "  Where  are  thy  manners  ?  Is  it  thy  place  in 
my  house  to  ape  my  guests  ?    See  to  thy  companion 


AN  ILL-MANNERED  BOY.  21 5 

there,  who  is  wearier  than  thou,  and  yet  he  waits.  Go 
and  bring  him  up,  or  thou  shalt  give  thy  supper  to  the 
cat's  daughter." 

"  So  I  will,"  responded  the  blouse,  with  assurance ; 
and  leaving  his  stool  abruptly,  he  ran  into  the  closet 
aforementioned,  and  brought  back  a  kitten,  which  as  he 
held  it  by  the  nape  of  its  neck  came  peaceably  enough, 
but  upon  his  dropping  it  roughly  to  the  floor,  set  up  a 
squeak.  Now  the  wrath  of  Aronach  appeared  too  pro- 
found for  utterance.  Raising  his  deep-set  but  light- 
some eyes  from  a  perfect  thicket  of  lashes,  he  gave  the 
impertinent  one  look  which  reminded  me  of  Van 
Amburgh  in  the  lion's  den.  Then,  ladling  three  or  four 
spoonfuls  of  soup  or  broth  into  a  plate,  he  set  the  plate 
upon  the  floor  and  the  kitten  at  it,  so  seriously,  that  I 
dared  not  laugh.  The  kitten,  meantime,  unused  to 
strong  meats,  for  it  was  not  a  week-old  mite,  mewed 
and  whined  in  antiphon  to  the  savage  lamentations  of 
another  cat  in  the  closet,  its  maternal  parent.  The 
blouse  never  stirred  an  inch,  save  carelessly  to  sneer 
over  his  shoulder  at  me ;  and  I  never  loved  him  from 
that  moment.  But  Santonio  nodded  to  me  significantly, 
as  to  say,  "  Come  here  !  "  and  I  came  and  planted  my 
stool  at  his  side. 

Aronach  took  no  notice,  but  went  on  pouring  coffee, 
one  cup  of  which  he  set  by  the  kitten.  Again  she 
piteously  smelled,  but  finding  it  even  worse  than  the 
broth,  she  crept  up  to  the  closet-door  and  smelled  at 
that. 

"  Go  up !  "  said  Aronach,  to  the  blouse,  "  and  send 
Burney  to  his  supper.  He  shall  have  the  cat's  supper, 
as  thou  hast  given  thine  to  the  cat." 

He  went  out  sulkily,  and  the  wail  above  ceased.  I 
also  heard  footsteps,  but  he  came  back  again  alone. 


2l6  CHARLES  AUCHESTER, 

"  He  won't  come  down." 

"  Won't !   Did  he  say  '  won't/  Iskar?   Have  a  care  !  " 

"  He  says  he  wants  no  supper." 

"That  I  have  taken  away  his  stomach,  eh?  Come 
hither,  thou  black  and  white  bird  that  art  not  yet  a 
pyet." 

This  was  to  me ;  I  was  just  sliding  from  my  stool. 

"  Eat  and  drink  first,  and  then  thou  shalt  carry  it  to 
him.  Thou  lookest  better  brought  up.  Don't  grimace, 
Iskar,  or  thou  shalt  sleep  in  the  cupboard  with  the  cat, 
and  the  rats  shall  dance  in  thy  fine  curls.  So  now  eat, 
Aukester,  if  that  be  thy  name." 

"  Sir,  I  am  Carl ;  will  you  please  to  call  me  Carl?  " 

He  gave  me  a  glance  from  behind  the  coffee-stand. 
Sparks  as  from  steel  seemed  to  come  out  of  his  orbs  and 
fly  about  my  brain ;  but  I  was  not  frightened  the  least, 
for  the  lips  of  this  austerest  of  autocrats  were  smihng 
like  sunlight  beneath  the  silver  hair.  I  saw  at  this 
moment  that  Aronach  had  a  bowl  of  smoking  milk 
crammed  with  bread  by  his  side,  and  believing  it  to  be 
for  the  violin  up  in  the  clouds,  and  concluding  infe- 
rentially  that  the  unseen  was  some  one  very  small,  I 
entreated  Aronach  without  fear  to  let  me  carry  it  to  him 
while  yet  it  smoked. 

He  did  not  object,  but  rather  stared,  and  observed  to 
Santonio,  "  His  father  makes  a  baby  of  him ;  to  give  a 
boy  such  stuff  is  enough  to  make  a  girl  grow  up  instead." 
Still  he  handed  it  to  me  with  the  caution,  "  If  thou 
fallest  on  thy  nose  in  going  up  to  heaven,  the  kitten  will 
lose  her  supper,  for  the  milk  is  all  used  up  in  the  town." 
I  could  just  see  a  very  narrow  set  of  steps,  exactly  like 
a  belfry-stair,  when  I  opened  the  door,  and  having  shut 
it  again  and  found  myself  in  darkness,  I  concluded  to 
leave  the  bowl  on  the  ground  till  I  had  explored  to  the 


A    TINY,   LONELY  LOOKING  BOY.  21/ 

top.  I  did  so,  and  spun  upwards,  discovering  another 
door,  to  which,  though  also  in  darkness,  the  wail  of  the 
violin  became  my  light.  I  just  unlatched  it,  and  re- 
turned for  my  burden,  carefully  adjusting  spoon  and 
basin  on  the  road  back.  I  knocked  first,  not  to  alarm 
the  semi-tonic  inhabitant ;  and  then,  receiving  no  inti- 
mation, entered  of  my  own  accord.  It  was  a  queer 
region,  hardly  so  superior  as  a  garret,  extremely  low  and 
vast,  \vith  mountains  of  lumber  in  every  corner,  and 
in  the  midst  a  pile  of  boxes  with  a  portmanteau  or  two, 
and  many  items  of  property  which  for  me  were  nonde- 
script. It  had  no  furniture  of  its  own  besides,  but  to 
do  it  justice  it  was  weather-proof.  I  could  see  all  this 
rugged  imagery  on  the  instant,  but  not  so  easily  I  dis- 
cerned a  little  figure  in  the  very  centre  of  the  boxes, 
sitting  upon  the  least  of  the  boxes,  and  solitarily  regal- 
ing the  silence,  without  either  desk  or  book,  with  what 
had  made  me  suffer  below  stairs.  The  organ-pipes 
came  up  here,  and  reached  to  the  very  roof ;  they  gave 
me  a  strange  feehng  as  of  something  misplaced  and 
mangled,  but  otherwise  I  was  charmed  to  discover 
them.  I  hastened  across  the  floor.  The  player  was 
certainly  not  an  adept.  —  a  tiny,  lonely  looking  boy, 
who  as  I  went  up  to  him  almost  let  his  fiddle  fall  with 
fright,  and  shrank  from  me  as  some  Httle  children  do 
from  dogs.  I  was  as  tall  again  as  he,  and  felt  quite 
manly.  "  I  am  only  come,"  I  said,  ''  to  bring  your 
supper,  —  have  it  while  it  is  hot ;  it  is  so  good  then  ! " 
Do  not  believe,  sweet  reader,  that  my  German  was 
more  polished  than  my  English,  —  it  wasquite  the  same. 
He  dropped  his  bow  upon  the  nearest  box,  and  depres- 
sing his  violin  so  that  it  touched  the  ground  while  he 
still  held  it,  looked  up  at  me  wath  such  a  wistful  wonder, 
his  lip  still  quivering,  his  pretty  hair  all  ruffled  up. 


2l8  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  I  don't  want  it,  thank  you." 

"You  must  eat  it ;  you  have  been  up  here  ever  so  long." 
"  Yes,  a  good  while ;  please  take  it  away.     Are  you 
the  new  one  who  was  coming  ?  " 
"  Who  said  I  was  coming?" 

"  The  master.  He  said  you  would  beat  us  both,  and 
get  first  to  Cecilia." 

"  That  is  because  I  am  older.     I  can't  play  the  least 
in  the  world.     I  don't  know  even  how  to  hold  the  bow. 
Come,  do  eat  this  good-looking  stuff." 
"  I  don't  think  I  can,  I  feel  so  sick." 
"That  is  because  you  do  want  something  to  eat." 
"  It  is  not  that "  —  he  touched  my  jacket.     "  This  is 
what  they  wear  in  England.     I  do  wish  you  would  talk 
Enghsh  to  me." 

I  was  touched  almost  into  tears.  "  You  are  such  a 
little  darling  ! "  I  exclaimed ;  and  I  would  have  given 
anything  to  fondle  him,  but  I  was  afraid  of  staying,  so  I 
took  a  spoonful  of  the  milk  and  put  it  to  his  lips,  still 
another  and  another,  till  he  had  taken  it  all ;  and  then  I 
said,  "  Do  not  practise  any  more  ; "  for  he  was  discon- 
solately gathering  up  his  bow. 

"  I  must  until  bed-time  ;  but  I  am  so  sleepy." 
"  Why  are  you  left  up  here?     I  will  stay  with  you." 
"  No,  no,  you  must  not.     I  only  came  up  here  be- 
cause the  master  caught  me  looking  out  of  the  window 
this  morning,  and  the  windows  here  don't   show   you 
anything  but  the  sky." 

As  I  went  out  at  the  door  I  looked  after  him  again. 
He  was  just  finishing  one  of  those  long  yawns  that 
babies  delight  in.  The  moment  I  found  my  way  below, 
I  marched  to  the  masters  chair.  He  was  awful  in  his 
dignity  then,  with  the  wine-bottle  beside  him  and  a 
glass  held  half-way  to  his  lips. 


MV  CAVE.  219 

"  Sir,  he  has  eaten  it  all,  but  he  is  so  very  sleepy  ; 
mayn't  he  go  to  bed?" 

Santonio  was  so  overcome  with  laughter  at  my  auda- 
city, though  I  was  really  very  much  alarmed,  that  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  shook  again.  Aronach 
bent  upon  me  his  flowing  beard  :  "  Dost  thou  know  to 
refrain  thyself,  as  well  as  thou  knowest  to  rebuke  thine 
elders?  "  But  I  could  plainly  see  he  was  not  angry, 
for  he  arose  and  tapped  upon  the  ceiling  with  a  stout 
oak  staff  that  he  fished  from  the  unimagined  closet. 
Then  the  little  one  came  down  and  into  the  room,  shy 
of  Santonio,  and  keeping  behind  his  chair,  as  he  mur- 
mured "  Good-night "  to  Aronach.  The  latter  gave  him 
a  nod  which  would  not  have  disgraced  Jove  in  full 
council.  Santonio  requested  very  kindly  that  I  too 
might  go  to  bed ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  I  found  myself 
in  that  Httle  cave  of  my  own  of  which  he  had  made 
mention. 

Its  entrance  was  hard  by,  through  one  of  the  very 
doors  I  had  noticed  when  the  glimmer  showed  me  the 
staircase,  and  it  entirely  answered  my  expectations,  in 
so  far  as  it  was  very  dim  and  haunted-looking,  very  un- 
like my  own  room  in  England,  or  any  of  our  rooms  at 
home.  It  had  a  stove,  a  looking-glass,  and  a  press 
large  enough  to  contain  a  bride's  trousseau  complete. 
There  was  also  a  recess  which  seemed  lined  with  Lon- 
don fog,  but  which,  on  examination  by  the  light  of  my 
candle,  I  found  to  contain  the  bed  in  a  box  of  which 
my  mother  had  forewarned  me.  I  could  no  more  have 
slept  in  it  than  if  it  had  been  a  coffin,  and  for  the  first 
time  I  fully  appreciated  her  provision  for  my  comfort  in 
this  particular.  My  boxes  were  all  there,  and  I  un- 
corded them  and  drew  forth  my  keys.  My  excellent 
sister  Clo  had  packed  in  one  trunk  the  bed  and  bed- 


220  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

ding,  and  one  set  of  night-clothes,  also  a  variety  of 
toilet  necessaries  in  holland  bags.  It  was  quite  an 
affair  to  lift  out  the  pieces ;  they  were  fitted  into  each 
other  so  beautifully  that  it  was  natural  to  imagine  they 
could  never  be  got  back  again.  None  but  an  expe- 
rienced feminine  hand  could  have  accomplished  such 
a  feat,  and  very  carefully  had  I  been  inducted  into  the 
puzzlement  of  putting  the  parts  together.  I  had  just 
unfolded  the  tight  white  mattress,  so  narrow,  but  so 
exactly  wide  enough,  when  Santonio  knocked  at  the 
door  to  bid  me  good- night  and  farewell ;  and  as  he 
came  in  he  assisted  me  in  the  accomplishment  of  my 
plans  with  that  assiduous  deftness  which  pre-eminently 
distinguishes  the  instrumental  artist.  He  most  kindly 
offered  to  see  me  into  bed ;  but  that  was  out  of  the 
question,  so  I  let  him  go  with  my  hearty  thanks.  It 
was  not  the  least  a  melancholy  feeling  with  which  I 
stretched  myself,  all  tingling  with  my  rapid  ablutions, 
beneath  my  home-blanket.  I  did  not  the  least  long 
after  home,  nor  the  least  experience  the  mother-sickness 
that  is  the  very  treble-string  of  humility  to  many  a  hero 
in  his  inaugurative  exile  ;  but  I  felt  extremely  old,  grand, 
and  self-reliant,  especially  satisfied,  in  spite  of  my  pres- 
ent ignorance,  that  by  some  means  or  other  this  Aronach 
would  make  a  man  of  me,  and  not  a  trifler.  I  was  just 
asleep  when  I  heard  a  hand  on  the  lock,  and  that  no 
dream,  for  a  voice  vociferated,  roughly  enough,  — ''  Out 
with  the  hght !  "     I  sprang  up  and  opened  the  door. 

"  It  is  only  my  little  lamp,  sir,  that  I  brought  with  me, 
and  it  is  very  safe,  as  you  see  ;  but  still,  if  you  wish  it,  I 
will  try  to  sleep  in  the  dark.  I  have  never  liked  to  do 
so,  because  it  excites  me." 

"  Bah  !  thou  art  too  young  to  know  the  meaning  of 
excitement.     But  for  the  sake  of  some  one  else  who 


I  LIE   AWAKE  AND   CONJECTURE.         221 

loves  the  night-lamp,  thou  mayest  keep  thine  eyes  open 
with  it,  and  thank  him  too,  for  it  is  his  doing.  Now 
get  back  to  bed  !  and  don't  come  out  again,  —  the 
quick  and  Hving  walk  not  about  in  night-smocks  here." 

I  heard  him  bolt  me  in  as  soon  as  I  shut  the  door.  I 
cannot  say  this  proceeding  pleased  me,  but  on  the  con- 
traiy  cost  me  many  a  cold  sweat  until  I  became  accus- 
tomed to  it.  I  lay  a  little  while  awake,  now  spying  out 
such  variations  from  English  style  as  had  escaped  me  on 
my  first  acquaintance  with  my  quarters ;  then  reverted 
to  Aronach's  dark  hint  about  the  person  who,  like  me, 
was  excited  by  the  darkness ;  and  at  last  recollected  my 
contemporaries,  and  speculated  upon  their  present  cir- 
cumstantials. Most  softly  did  that  poor  litde  soul  pre- 
sent himself  to  mine  as  he  played  with  my  buttons,  and 
I  secretly  determined  to  become  his  protector  and  ally. 
As  for  the  imp  in  the  blouse,  I  abjured  him  at  first  sight ; 
perhaps  because  he  was,  though  repugnant  to  my  taste, 
handsome  and  elegant,  and  I  was  neither. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

I  AWOKE  with  sonorous  cries,  and  sounds  of  bells, 
and  songs  of  sellers,  and  the  dim  ringing  of  wheels 
on  a  frosty  soil.  Hard  and  white  the  day-dews  stood 
upon  the  windows  ;  the  sky  was  clear  as  hght  itself,  and 
my  soul  sprang  as  into  the  arms  of  freedom.  It  oc- 
curred to  me  that  I  was  perhaps  late,  and  I  dressed 
fast.  About  half-way  to  the  end,  I  heard  the  violins  be- 
gin, both  of  them ;  but  now  they  outrageously  contra- 
dicted each  other  in  different  directions,  and  I  could 
keep  by  my  ear  to  neither. 

I  made  the  utmost  haste,  but,  as  in  most  cases,  it  was 
least  speed.  I  pulled  off  a  button,  and  then  a  shoe- 
string came  loose  ;  I  had  to  begin  very  nearly  all  over 
again.  And  when  at  length  equipped,  I  recalled  the  in- 
carceration of  the  previous  night,  and  wondered  how 
long  I  should  stay  there ;  but  a  sudden  impulse  sent  me 
to  the  door,  and  immediately  it  yielded  to  my  hand. 
"He  has  been  here,  then,"  I  thought,  ''and  has  not 
awakened  me,  because  I  was  tired  last  night.  How  good, 
to  be  sure  !  Not  at  all  what  I  expected."  I  saUied  forth 
to  the  landing  ;  it  was  like  a  room  itself,  but  still  dark,  — 
dark  for  day-time  ;  and  I  could  only  make  out  its  extent 
by  the  glimmer  through  the  crack  beneath  every  door. 
I  listened  at  each  first,  not  knowing  at  the  instant  which 
was  which ;  but  the  violins  asserted  themselves,  and  I 
chose  one  to  unlock  on  my  own  responsibility.  I  had 
made  a  mistake  here,  and  come  into  the   untenanted 


/  MISS  MY   VIOLIN.  223 

organ-room  where  we  had  supped.  There  the  wintry 
light  reigned  full,  and  freshened  up  the  old  tints  till  they 
gleamed  no  more  dusky,  but  rich. 

The  pictures  and  wreaths  of  other  years  gave  wel- 
come to  me,  that  magic  child  especially ;  nor  less  the 
harpsichord  unopened,  quiet,  while  those  sounds  of 
younger  violins  broke  through  and  through  my  fancy, 
and  made  my  heart  swell  up  till  I  could  have  fainted 
with  emotion. 

But  of  all  that  pressed  upon  me,  the  crowning  sense 
was  of  that  silent  organ  lost  in  the  shady  roof;  the  sun 
playing  upon  those  columned  tubes,  and  the  black-white 
key-board  clustering  to  hide  its  wealth  of  •'  unheard 
melodies,"  sweeter  than  those  "heard,''  as  one  has  sung, 
who  can  surely  never  have  heard  them  ! 

The  chamber  had  been  brushed  and  swept,  but  still 
the  fine  dust  flew,  and  caught  the  sunshine  on  its  eddies 
like  another  shade  of  light.  There  was  no  one  in  the 
room,  and,  my  first  flush  over,  I  felt  alone  and  idle. 
The  table  was  spread  for  breakfast,  as  I  discovered,  last 
of  all ;  and  I  question  whether  such  coffee  as  stood 
upon  the  stove  so  cosily  could  be  surpassed  even  in 
Arabia.  It  was  so  perfect  that  it  stood  the  test  of  sugar- 
lessness,  which  I  preferred,  if  possible.  Standing  to 
eat  and  drink  in  all  haste,  a  speculation  stung  me,  — 
where  was  my  viohn?  It  had  not  even  slept  with  me  ; 
I  had  missed  it  in  my  room,  —  that  baby  of  mine,  that 
doll,  that  ladykin  !  I  looked  ever}^vhere,  —  at  least 
ever\^where  I  could ;  the  closet-door  I  did  not  try,  justly 
supposing  that  it  was  not  my  place  to  do  so ;  and  at 
last  I  concluded  to  attack  my  fellow-pupils. 

I  found  my  small  friend's  door  very  easily,  and  turned 
the  key  to  admit  myself.  The  room,  to  my  amazement, 
was  precisely  like  my  own,  even  to  that  bed  in  the 


224  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

recess  ;  and  the  inmate  was  not  alarmed,  for  he  evidently 
expected  me. 

"  Oh !  "  he  said,  after  putting  up  his  lips  to  mine, 
"Marc  has  your  study  for  this  morning;  the  master 
gave  it  him  to  keep  till  you  were  ready.  But  mind  you 
lock  me  in  again  when  you  get  out,  or  he  will  flog  you 
and  me." 

"  Did  he  ever  flog  you  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  and  he  does  not  call  it  '  flog ; '  but  he  did  tie 
Marc's  hands  together  one  day,  and  he  said  it  was 
the  same  to  him  to  do  that  as  for  an  English  master 
to  flog." 

"  A  very  mild  type,  I  think.     But  who  is  Marc?  " 

"  Marc  Iskar ;  you  saw  him  last  night.  He  won't 
speak  to  me ;  he  says  I  am  too  young." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  you.  And  what  is  your  little 
name?" 

'*  I  am  Starwood  Burney ;  ^  but  I  should  like  you  to 
call  me  Star,  as  my  papa  does." 

"  That  I  will,  my  German  aster  ! " 

"  Aster  is  Latin  ;  I  have  begun  Latin.  But  do  please 
go,  I  have  so  much  to  do,  and  he  will  be  so  very  angry, 
—  so  very,  very  cross  !  " 

"  How  dare  you  say  so,  when  he  has  never  even  tied 
your  hands  together  !  You  should  not  be  hurt  nor  dis- 
graced, little  Starling ;  if  I  were  there,  I  would  be  pun- 
ished instead,  for  I  have  twice  your  strength.  But  you 
should  try  to  love  him  while  you  fear  him." 

1  There  is  no  question  but  that  Starwood  Burney  is  intended 
for  a  portrait  of  Sterndale  Bennett.  Mendelssohn  was  his 
friend  from  boyhood,  and  aided  him  greatly  with  his  suggestions, 
though  it  is  doubtful  whether  Bennett  ever  studied  with  him. 
It  was  through  Mendelssohn's  influence  that  he  brought  out 
Bach's  music  in  London.  He  was  also  a  pupil  of  the  Leipsic 
Conservatory. 


MARC  ISKAR.  22$ 

"  You  speak  like  a  great  man,  and  I  will  try.  But 
please  to  go  now,  for  I  find  this  very  hard." 

I  left  him,  having  selfishly  shrunk  from  the  necessity 
to  interrogate  Iskar. 

I  stole  to  his  door.  I  was  really  electrified  as  I  stood, 
—  not  with  envy,  but  with  amazement !  He  was  already 
a  wonderful  mechanist.  Such  sallies  of  execution  were  to 
me  tremendous,  but  his  tone  did  not  charm  me,  and  I 
imagined  it  might  be  the  defect  of  his  instrument  that  it 
sounded  thin  and  cold,  unlike  my  notion  altogether,  and 
frosty  as  the  frost  without.  Clearly  and  crisply  it  saluted 
me  as  I  entered.  The  room  was  like  ours,  —  the  little 
one's  and  mine  ;  but  it  was  gayly  adorned  with  pictures 
of  the  lowest  order  (such  as  are  hawked  about  the 
streets  in  England),  and  only  conspicuous  from  their 
unnaturally  vivid  coloring.  They  were  chiefly  figures  of 
ladies  dancing,  or  of  gentlemen  brandishing  the  sword 
and  helmet, — theatrical  subjects,  as  I  afterwards  dis- 
covered. Iskar  was  sitting  before  his  desk,  and  had  his 
face  from  me.  As  I  approached,  my  awe  was  doubled 
at  his  performance,  for  I  beheld  Corelli's  solos.  I  had 
heard  of  those  from  Davy.  Another  desk  was  also  near 
him,  and  a  second  violin-case  stood  upon  the  floor.  I 
asked  him  very  modestly  whether  they  were  mine.  He 
replied,  without  regarding  me,  "  That  sheet  of  paper  has 
your  exercise  upon  it,  and  if  you  cannot  play  it,  you  are 
to  look  in  Marenthal's  Prolusion,  which  is  in  the  bureau 
under  the  desk.  You  are  to  take  all  these  things  into 
your  own  room." 

There  was  something  in  the  tones  of  the  blouse  —  he 
was  yet  in  blouse  —  that  irritated  me  intensely.  His 
voice  was  defined  as  that  of  his  violin,  and  to  the  full 
as  frosty.  I  was  only  too  happy  to  retire.  Then,  sit- 
ting upon  my  own  bed,  I  examined  the  exercise.  It 
VOL.  I. —  IS 


226  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

was  drearily  indistinct, — a  copy,  and  I  could  make  noth- 
ing of  it.  The  mere  Germanisms  of  the  novel  rests  and 
signs  appalled  me.  I  could  neither  handle  the  violin  nor 
steady  the  bow ;  but  I  had  carefully  borne  in  mind  the 
methods  I  had  observed  when  I  had  had  opportunity, 
and  I  stooped  to  take  this  child  of  music  from  its  cradle. 
It  was  no  more  mine  own  than  I  had  expected  ;  an  awk- 
ward bulky  frame  it  had,  and  I  did  not  feel  to  love  it 
nor  to  bring  it  to  my  heart.  Something  must  be  done, 
I  felt,  and  I  returned  to  the  organ-room.  I  found  the 
Prolusion,  as  Iskar  said,  —  an  awfully  Faustish  tome, 
with  rusty  clasps,  the  letters  worn  off  the  back.  I  was 
in  doom  certainly.  It  was  close  black  national  type,  and 
I  pored  and  bored  myself  over  it,  —  leaf  after  leaf,  — 
until,  blissfully,  I  arrived  at  the  very  exercise  prepared 
for  me.  It  was  presented  in  illustration,  and  there  were 
saw-like  enunciations  of  every  step  ;  but  half  the  words 
were  unknown  to  me,  and  I  grew  rigid  with  despair. 
"  Oh  !  "  I  cried  aloud,  '^  if  some  one  would  only  tell  me  ! 
if  Davy  were  only  here  !  if  Lenhart  Davy  knew  !  "  Still 
I  slackened  not  in  my  most  laughable  labor,  endeavor- 
ing to  interpret  such  words  as  I  could  not  translate  by 
their  connection  with  others  I  did  know,  by  their  look 
and  make,  —  their  euphony.  I  was  vocalizing  them  very 
loud,  and  had  made  out  already  the  first  position,  when 
a  rattle  of  the  closet  lock  turned  me  all  over  cold.  I 
listened,  it  came  again  ;  a  tremendous  "  So  !  "  followed, 
and  the  door,  opening,  displayed  Aronach  himself  in  the 
glories  of  a  morning-gown.  How  could  he  have  got  in 
there,  and  how  have  come  out  upon  me  so  suddenly 
without  any  warning?  and  above  all,  how  would  he  be- 
have to  me,  finding  me  so  ignorant  ?  I  believe  that  on 
account  of  my  very  ignorance  I  found  favor  in  his 
sight,  — he  truly  wise ;  for,  merely  alluding  to  my  condi- 


AfV  INITIATION.  227 

tion  in  this  form,  "  Thou  hast  shown  thyself  faithful,  only 
keep  thy  faith,"  he  bade  me  bring  my  traps  m  there,  and 
assured  me  —  merely  by  his  aspect  —  that  he  would 
clear  every  stone  from  my  path. 

When  I  returned  he  was  standing  between  the  organ 
and  the  wmdow :  a  grander  picture  could  not  be  perpe- 
trated of  the  life-long  laboring  and,  for  love's  sake, 
aspiring  artist.  His  funowed  forehead  was  clear  as 
rutted  snow  in  the  serene  of  sunlight  as  he  appeared 
then  ;  and  through  all  the  sternness  with  which  he  spoke 
I  discerned  the  gentleness  of  art's  impression.  And 
after  the  most  careful  initiation  into  the  simplest  mecha- 
nical process,  he  dismissed  me  to  work  alone,  nor  did 
1  relax  from  that  one  exercise  for  a  week. 

But  a  great  deal  chanced  in  that  week  besides.  We 
spent  each  day  alike,  except  Sunday.  On  other  days 
we  breakfasted  very  soon  after  it  was  light,  on  milk  por- 
ridge, or  bread  and  coffee.  But  sometimes  Aronach 
would  breakfast  alone  in  his  cave,  which  was  that  very 
closet  I  mentioned,  and  in  which  the  day  must  have 
been  developed  about  as  decidedly  as  beneath  the 
ground.  However,  he  had  his  lamp  in  there,  and  his 
private  escritoire,  besides  all  kinds  of  books  and  papers, 
that  were  seldom  produced  in  our  presence,  and  then 
only  one  at  a  time. 

The  kitten's  basket  was  there  too,  and  there  were 
shelves  upon  shelves,  containing  napery  and  all  sorts 
of  oddities,  that  had  their  nest  there  after  being 
hatched  in  crannies  of  the  old  man's  brain.  The  first 
time  I  took  a  peep  I  discerned  my  own  violin,  carefully 
enough  housed,  but  quite  above  my  reach.  1  fumed  a 
litde,  of  course,  but  did  not  betray  myself;  and  it  was 
well  I  did  not,  as  Iskar  and  little  Starwood  both  prac- 
tised on  common  fiddles  scraping  could  not  rasp,  nor 
inexperience  injure. 


228  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

After  breakfast  we  worked  till  noon  under  lock  and 
key.  At  noon  we  dined,  and  at  two  o'clock  were  sent 
to  walk.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  put  down  Aronach 
as  a  tyrant.  He  must,  at  least,  be  so  written,  in  that  his 
whims,  no  less  than  his  laws,  were  unalterable.  A  whim 
it  certainly  was  that  we  should  always  walk  one  way,  and 
the  same  distance  every  day,  unless  he  sent  us  on  any 
special  errand.  This  promenade,  though  monotonous, 
became  dear  to  me,  and  I  soon  learned  to  appreciate 
the  morale  of  that  regime.  We  could  not  go  to  Cecilia, 
which  had  its  village  only  two  miles  off,  and  whose  soft 
blue  gentle  hill  was  near  enough  to  woo,  and  distant 
enough  to  tempt  the  dreamer,  nor  would  our  guide  at 
hand  permit  us  to  approach  the  precinct  consecrated  to 
such  artistic  graduation  as  we  had  not  yet  attained. 

In  the  mornings  Aronach  was  either  absent  abroad 
instructing,  or  writing  at  home.  But  we  never  got  at 
him,  and  were  not  suffered  to  apply  to  him  until  the 
evening.  As  we  could  not  play  truant  unless  we  had 
battered  down  the  doors,  so  we  could  not  associate  with 
each  other  unreservedly,  except  in  our  walks ;  and  on 
those  occasions,  pretty  often,  our  master  came  too,  call- 
ing on  his  friends  as  he  passed  their  houses,  while  we 
paraded  up  and  down ;  but  whenever  he  was  by  our 
side,  silent  as  a  ruminant  ox,  and  awful  as  Apis  to  the 
Egyptians  for  Starwood  and  for  me.  When  he  came 
not,  it  would  have  been  charming,  but  for  Iskar,  who 
was  either  too  fine  to  talk,  or  else  had  nothing  at  his 
command  to  say,  and  whose  deportment  was  so  drearily 
sarcastic  that  neither  of  us,  his  companions,  ever  ven- 
tured an  original  or  a  sympathizing  remark. 

On  my  first  Sunday  I  took  Starwood  to  church, — 
that  is,  we  preceded  Aronach,  who  was  lecturing  Tskar, 
and  sent  us  on  beforehand.     The  little  one  was  bright 


STARWOOD  BURNEY.  229 

this  morning,  and  as  I  looked  upon  his  musically  built 
brow,  and  trembling  color,  and  expressive  eyes,  —  blue 
as  the  air  at  evening,  and  full  of  that  sort  of  light,  — I 
could  not  make  clear  to  myself  how  it  was  that  he  so 
disliked  his  work,  and  drooped  beneath  it  in  the  effort  to 
master  his  frail  body  by  his  struggling  soul.  We  had 
turned  into  the  place  of  the  church,  —  the  leafless  lin- 
dens were  whispering  to  it,  —  and  we  rested  by  the 
stone  basin,  while  the  bells  came  springing  through  the 
frost-clear  day  like  —  yet  how  unlike  —  England  !  I  was 
afraid  my  small  companion  would  be  cold,  and  I  put  one 
of  his  long  Httle  hands  into  my  pocket  with  my  own, 
while  I  made  him  tuck  the  other  into  both  his  warm 
gloves,  till,  by  degrees,  —  having  coaxed  and  comforted 
him  to  the  utmost,  —  he  told  me  more  about  himself 
than  I  had  known  before.  He  was  extremely  timid  to 
talk,  shy  as  a  fawn,  even  to  me.  But  at  last  I  made  out 
satisfactorily  the  secret  of  his  antipathy  to  his  violin.  I 
cannot  remember  all  his  words,  —  besides,  they  were  too 
infantine  to  write  ;  but  he  described  himself  as  having 
spent  that  most  forlorn  of  all  untended  childhoods  which 
befalls  the  motherless  offspring  of  the  needy  artist  in 
England.  His  father  had  lived  in  London  and  taught 
music,  but  had  left  him  constantly  alone ;  and  I  also 
discovered  he  had  been,  and  was  still,  an  organist.  The 
child  assured  me  his  mamma  had  been  a  beautiful  player, 
but  that  no  one  ever  opened  her  grand  piano,  which 
stood  in  a  parlor  above  the  street. 

"  I  always  knew  I  was  to  grow  up  to  music,"  said 
Starwood ;  "  for  mamma  had  told  me  so,  and  she  taught 
me  my  notes  when  I  was  only  four  years  old.  When 
she  died,  no  one  taught  me ;  and  while  papa  was  out  all 
day,  I  played  with  my  toys  and  sat  upon  the  stau-s. 
One  day  some  men  came  up  and  nearly  fell  over  me.     I 


230  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

ran  into  the  parlor,  and  they  came  too.  They  knocked 
the  piano  about,  and  began  to  take  its  legs  off.  I  called 
out  to  them,  *You  must  not  touch  that;  —  it  is  my 
mamma's  ! ' 

"They  did  not  take  any  notice,  but  made  a  great 
noise,  and  at  last  they  carried  it  away  —  all  of  it — upon 
their  shoulders.  I  saw  it  go  downstairs,  and  I  sat  there 
all  day  and  cried ;  I  was  very  miserable,  I  know.  Papa 
came  home  at  last ;  when  I  was  so  unhappy  I  thought  I 
must  die,  and  it  was  all  in  the  dark,  and  very  cold.  He 
carried  me  in  his  arms,  and  made  me  tell  him  why  I 
cried.  I  said  '  Because  of  the  piano  ; '  and  he  told  me 
he  had  sold  it  because  it  was  so  large,  and  because  he 
wanted  the  money.  I  know  he  was  very  poor,  Charles ; 
for  a  gentleman  who  was  very  kind  to  him  gave  him 
some  more  money  to  send  me  here,  or  I  could  not  have 
come.  But  I  wish  he  had  kept  me  at  home  and  taught 
me  himself." 

"  But  how,"  I  replied,  "  can  you  be  sorry  now  ?  We 
ought  to  be  most  gloriously  happy  to  find  ourselves  here. 
But  you  fret,  my  dear  little  boy,  and  mope,  and  that 
makes  you  thin,  and  takes  the  strength  out  of  you  that 
you  want  for  music." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  not  it.  You  don't  know,  Charles,  how 
I  feel ;   I  know  you  don't,  for  you  love  your  violin." 

« I  should  think  I  did  !  " 

"  Well,  I  am  strange  to  it,  and  don't  love  it,  —  at 
least,  don't  love  to  play  it." 

"  But  why  did  you  not  tell  your  father  so  before  he 
sent  you  here  ?  You  know  you  will  never  do  anything 
well  that  you  don't  love  to  do,  —  it  is  impossible.  And 
not  to  love  the  violin,  Star,  for  shame  ! " 

"  It  is  not  that,  —  oh,  don't  be  angry  with  me  !  —  but 
my  music  is  in  the  beautiful  cold  keys." 


A   GENUINE   ORGAN-HAND.  23 1 

"  Darling  little  Star !  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  but  then, 
why  don't  you  learn  the  piano?" 

"  But  Charles,  I  cannot.  I  was  sent  here  to  learn  the 
violin,  and  I  7nust  study  it.  Aronach  does  not  let  any 
one  study  the  pianoforte  under  him  now." 

"He  did  then?" 

"Yes,  a  long  time  ago,  when  he  lived  in  another 
place,  about  thirty  miles  off.  Have  you  heard  Aronach 
play  the  organ  ?  " 

"  No  ;  have  you  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  every  Sunday." 

"  You  don't  say  so,  Star  !  is  it  not  delicious?  " 

"  Charles,  I  hke  it  best  of  all  the  days  in  the  week, 
because  he  plays.  Such  different  playing  from  what 
they  have  at  church  in  England  ! " 

"  I  shall  go  up  to  the  organ  and  see  him  play." 

"Charles,  Charles,  don't;  please  don't,  —  we  never 
do!" 

"  Then  I  shall  be  the  first,  for  go  I  must.  There  is 
precious  Aronach  himself.  I  will  run  after  him  wherever 
he  goes." 

I  did  so  most  rudely  —  forsaking  Starwood,  who  did 
not  dare  to  follow  me ;  but  I  would  not  miss  the  oppor- 
tunity. I  spun  after  Aronach  so  noiselessly  as  that 
he  had  no  notion  I  was  following,  though  in  general 
he  had  eyes  behind ;  and  he  did  not  perceive  me  until 
the  service  had  absolutely  begun.  Then  I  made  myself 
visible,  and  caught  a  frown,  which  was  accompanied  by 
a  helpless  condition  truly  edifying ;  for  his  arms  and 
hands  and  eyes  and  feet  were  all  equally  on  service.  I 
therefore  remained,  and  made  out  more  about  the  in- 
strument than  I  had  made  out  my  whole  life  before. 
His  was  a  genuine  organ-hand,  that  could  stretch  itself 
indefinitely,  and  yet  double  up  so  crawlingly  that  the 


232  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

fingers,  as  they  lay,  were  like  stems  of  corrugated  ivory ; 
and  I  watched  only  less  than  I  listened.  The  choir  — 
so  full  and  perfect,  trained  to  every  individual  —  mounted 
its  effects,  as  it  were,  upon  those  of  the  controlling  har- 
monies. There  was  a  depth  in  these  that  supported 
their  air-waving  tones,  as  pillars  solid  and  polished  a 
vaulted  roof,  where  shadows  waver  and  nestle.  I  found 
a  book,  and  sang  at  intervals,  but  generally  preferred  to 
receive  the  actual  impression.  I  think  my  first  mother- 
feeling  for  Germany  was  born  that  Sunday  in  pleasurable 
pain. 

None  can  know  who  has  not  felt  —  none  feel  who  has 
not  heard  —  the  spell  of  those  haunting  services  in  the 
land  of  Luther  !  The  chorale  so  grave  and  powerful, 
with  its  interpieces  so  light  and  florid,  like  slender  fret- 
works on  a  marble  shrine,  —  the  unisonous  pause,  the 
antiphonal  repose,  the  deep  sense  of  worship  stirred  by 
the  sense  of  sound.  From  that  Sunday  I  always  went 
with  Aronach,  unbidden,  but  unforbidden ;  and  as  I 
learned  to  be  very  expert  in  stopping,  I  substituted  very 
speedily  the  functionary  who  had  performed  the  office 
before  my  advent. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

IT  cannot  be  supposed  that  I  forgot  my  home,  or 
that  I  failed  to  institute  an  immediate  correspon- 
dence, which  was  thus  checked  in  the  bud.  Aronach, 
finding  me  one  night,  after  we  had  all  retired,  with  my 
little  ink-bottle  on  the  floor  and  myself  outsprawled 
writing  upon  my  knees  close  into  my  lamp,  very  coolly 
carried  my  sheet,  pen,  and  ink  away,  and  informed  me 
that  he  never  permitted  his  pupils  to  write  home  at  all, 
or  to  write  anything  except  what  he  set  them  to  do. 

I  should  have  revolted  outright  against  this  restriction 
but  for  a  saving  discovery  I  made  on  the  morrow,  —  that 
our  master  himself  dismissed  from  his  own  hand  a  bul- 
letin of  our  health  and  record  of  our  progress  once  a 
month.  Precious  specimens,  no  doubt,  they  were,  these, 
of  hard-hearted  fact !  Neither  were  we  allowed  to 
receive  letters  ourselves  from  home.  Only  simple  com- 
munications were  permitted  to  himself;  and  the  effect 
of  this  rule,  so  autocratic,  was  desperately  painful  upon 
me  at  first.  I  hungered  for  some  sweet  morsel  of 
Enghsh,  served  up  in  English  character;  I  wanted  to 
hear  more  than  that  all  were  well ;  and  as  for  Lenhart 
Davy,  had  not  my  love  informed  my  memory,  I  should 
have  forgotten  him  altogether.  But  it  was  very  soon  I 
began  to  realize  that  this  judicious  interdiction  lent  a 
tonic  bitterness  to  my  life.  I  was  completely  abstracted, 
and  upon  that  passage  of  my  inwardly  eventful  history 
I  can  never  glance  back  without  a  quiet  tear  or  two ;  it 


234  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

was  heavenly  in  its  unabsolved  and  absolute  serenity. 
It  was  the  one  mood  that  befitted  a  growing  heart  too 
apt  to  burn,  —  a  busy  brain  too  apt  to  vision,  —  if  that 
head  and  heart  were  ever  to  be  raised  from  the  valley  of 
material  life  into  the  mountain  heights  of  art. 

I  fear  my  remembrances  are  dull  just  here,  for  the 
glory  that  touched  them  was  of  the  moment,  and  too 
subtle  to  be  retrieved ;  but  it  is  impossible  not  just  to 
remind  myself  of  them  before  returning  to  my  adventure- 
maze. 

For  six  months,  that  passed  as  swifdy  as  six  weeks  of 
a  certain  existence,  we  went  on  together  —  I  should 
have  said  —  hand-in-hand,  but  that  my  Starwood's  dif- 
fident melancholy  and  Iskar's  travestied  hauteur  would 
have  held  me  back,  and  I  was  ardent  to  impel  myself 
forward.  So,  though  at  first  I  had  to  work  almost  to 
desperation  in  order  to  join  the  evening  contrapuntal 
class,  I  soon  left  the  other  two  behind,  and  Aronach 
taught  me  alone,  —  which  was  an  advantage  it  would  be 
impossible  to  overrate.     Not  that  he  ever  commended, 

—  it  was  not  in  him ;  he  was  too  exigent,  too  stern ;  his 
powers  never  condescended ;  he  was  never  known  to 
qualify ;  he  was  never  personally  made  acquaintance 
with.  Something  of  the  hermit  blended  mystically  with 
his  acumen,  so  that  the  primary  advantage  of  our  posi- 
tion was  his  supreme  standard,  insensibly  our  own  also, 

—  the  secondary,  our  undisturbed  seclusion. 

As  I  said,  we  walked  the  same  distance  day  by  day. 
Nothing  is  uniform  to  a  soul  really  set  on  the  idealities 
of  art.  Everything,  though  it  changes  not,  suggests  to 
the  mind  of  the  musician.  Though  not  a  full-grown 
mind,  I  had  all  joy  in  that  unchanging  route  ;  for  as  the 
year  grew  and  rounded,  all,  as  it  were,  aspired  without 
changing.     Meditation  mellowed  every  circumstance  till 


/  FEAR  FOR  STAR'S  HEALTH.  235 

it  ripened  to  an  unalterable  charm.  I  always  walked 
with  Starwood,  who  still  made  me  very  anxious ;  sud- 
denly and  increasingly  so  pale  and  frail  he  became  that 
I  fully  expected  him  to  die  that  spring.  Indeed,  he 
hardly  cleared  it ;  and  I  should  have  mentioned  my 
fears  to  Aronach  but  that  he  seemed  fully  aware  of  all  I 
feared.  But  instead  of  getting  rid  of  the  weakHng,  as  I 
dreaded  he  might  choose  to  do,  he  physicked  him  and 
kept  him  in  liis  bed-box  twice  or  thrice  a  week,  and 
taciturnly  indulged  him ;  giving  him  hot  possets  at 
night,  and  cooling  drinks  by  day.  The  poor  little  fellow 
was  very  grateful,  but  still  sad  ;  and  I  was  astonished 
that  Aronach  still  expected  him  to  practise,  unless  he 
was  in  bed,  and  to  write,  except  his  head  ached.  The 
indefinite  disorder  very  seldom  reached  that  cHmax 
though,  and  chiefly  asserted  itself  in  baby-yawns  and 
occasional  whimpers,  constant  weariness,  and  entire  loss 
of  appetite.  I  at  length  discovered  his  age,  and  Iskar's 
also.  The  latter  had  passed  eleven,  but  was  not  so 
nearly  twelve  as  I ;  the  first  was  scarcely  nine,  and  so 
small  he  might  have  been  only  six.  It  struck  me  he 
would  not  be  much  older,  and  I  had  learned  to  love 
him  too  well  in  his  infantine  and  affecting  weakness.  I 
ventured,  one  day,  to  ask  Aronach  whether  his  father 
knew  he  was  ill.     I  was  answered, — 

"  He  is  not  ill." 

"  But,  sir,  he  is  low  and  weak !  " 

"  He  will  always  be  weak  while  thou  art  petting  him. 
Who  can  take  more  care  of  him  than  I?     His  father?  " 

"  Oh,  master  !  I  know  you  are  good  ;  but  what  if  he 
dies?" 

"  His  work  will  not  have  killed  him.  nor  his  weak- 
ness. If  people  are  to  die,  they  die  ;  if  they  are  to  live, 
they  live." 


236  CHARLES  AUCHBSTER. 

I  was  silenced,  not  convinced ;  but  from  that  hour  I 
did  not  think  he  would  die  ;  nor  did  he. 

Aronach  was  strict,  he  never  departed  from  a  rule ; 
it  was  his  chief  and  salient  characteristic.  He  never 
held  what  one  may  call  conversation  with  us  on  any 
subject  except  our  studies,  and  then  it  was  in  exempli- 
fication, not  suggestively.  It  was  a  beneficial  reserve, 
perhaps,  but  I  could  not  have  endured  it  forever,  and 
might  have  become  impatient  but  for  the  auspices  of 
the  season  ;  it  was  the  very  beginning  of  May.  Though 
shut  up  to  a  great  extent,  as  we  were,  the  weather  made 
itself  an  entrance,  blue  sky  swelled,  and  the  glow  of 
morning  woke  me  before  dawn.  The  lindens  near 
the  fountain  began  to  blossom,  and  in  the  garden  of  the 
church  the  oak-leaves  clustered.  I  saw  nothing  of  the 
country  yet,  and  could  only  dream  of  unknown  beauty 
in  untraversed  paths.  The  Ceciha  examinations  ap- 
proached. Aronach  attended  almost  every  day  at  the 
school.  I  knew  just  so  much  and  no  more,  and  as 
much  expected  to  assist  thereat  as  I  should  have  hoped 
to  come  of  age  on  my  twelfth  birthday.  My  birthday 
was  in  that  month  of  May,  in  the  third  week;  and 
though  I  was  innocent  of  the  fact,  it  was  a  fact  that  it 
was  one  of  Cecilia's  feast-days  as  well  as  my  own.  It 
was,  however,  such  a  delicious  morning  that  it  nearly 
sent  me  mad  up  in  my  little  room  to  be  mewed  there, 
when  such  thousands  upon  thousands  roamed  whereso- 
ever they  would ;  for  I  never  took  it  into  account  how 
many  of  those  wanderers  would  rejoice  to  be  so  shut  up 
as  I  was,  could  they  only  rest.  And  it  struck  me  that  at 
least  one  day  in  the  year  one  ought  to  be  permitted  to 
do  exactly  as  one  desired,  even  were  the  desire  to 
drown  one's  self  the  prevalent  aspiration.  There  are 
times  when  it  is  not  only  natural,  but  necessary,  to  rebel 


/   WASTE  MY  TIME.  237 

against  authority ;  so  that  had  I  not  been  locked  in,  I 
would  have  certainly  escaped  and  made  a  ramble  on 
my  own  responsibility ;  for  I  should  have  acted  upon  as 
pure  impulse  as  when  —  usually  industrious  enough  as 
I  was  —  I  laid  down  my  fiddle  and  wasted  my  time. 

As  I  gazed  upon  the  window  and  smelt  the  utter 
sweetness  of  the  atmosphere,  hardly  so  much  air  as 
flower  spirit,  the  voice  of  perfume,  I  was  wishful  of  the 
wings  of  all  the  flies,  and  envious  of  the  butterflies  that 
blundered  in  and  floated  out.  I  am  sure  I  had  been 
idle  at  least  an  hour,  and  had  no  prospect  of  taking 
heed  to  my  ways,  so  long  as  the  sky  was  blue  as  that 
sky,  and  the  breeze  blew  in,  when  I  felt,  rather  than 
heard,  a  soft  little  knock  at  the  door.  I  fancied  it  was 
the  servant  dashing  her  broomstick  upon  the  landing ; 
but  in  a  moment  it  was  repeated,  and  I  was  very  shy  to 
take  any  notice,  feeling  that  a  goblin  could  let  itself  in, 
and  had  better  do  so  than  be  admitted.  Then  I  was 
roused  indeed,  and  my  own  inaction  scared  me,  for  I 
recognized  Starwood's  voice. 

"  Charles,  I  want  to  come  in,  —  may  n't  I  a  minute, 
please?" 

"  Really,  Star,  it  is  too  bad  of  you  to  give  me  such 
a  turn  !  How  can  I  open  the  door  ?  Pray  come  in 
directly,  and  tell  me  what  is  the  matter." 

He  boggled  at  the  lock  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  at 
last  admitted  himself. 

*'  Why,  Star,  how  frightened  you  look  !  Have  you 
been  flogged  at  last?  and  is  the  master  home  already?" 

"  No,  no,   Charles  !     Something  most  extraordinary." 

I  really  could  but  laugh,  the  child  repeated  the 
words   with   such  an  awe. 

"A  gentleman,  Charles,  has  come.  He  opened  my 
door   while   I   was   practising.     I    should    have    been 


238  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

dreadfully  frightened,  but  he  was  so  kind,  and  came  in 
so  gently.  He  thought  you  were  here,  Charles,  and 
asked  for  you ;  he  says  he  does  not  know  your  name, 
but  that  he  could  tell  me  whether  you  were  here  if  I 
would  describe  you.  I  said  how  pale  you  were,  with 
such  dark  eyes,  and  about  your  playing,  and  he  said,  — 

"  *  All  right,  go  and  fetch  him,  or  send  him  to  me  : 
will  you  be  so  kind?'  " 

"  How  could  you  be  quite  sure  ?  It  may  be  some 
one  for  Iskar,  who  is  pale,  and  has  dark  eyes." 

''  He  said  it  was  the  viohn  that  came  at  Christmas, 
I  was  to  send ;  and  you  came  at  Christmas.  Besides, 
he  looks  very  like  a  friend  you  would  have ;  he  is  not 
like  anybody  else." 

**  What  is  he  like,  Star?" 

"  His  face  is  so  very  bright  and  clever  that  I  could 
not  look  at  it ;  but  I  saw  his  beautiful  curling  hair.  I 
never  saw  such  curling  hair." 

*'  Come  in  with  me,  then.  Star." 

"  No,  he  said  I  was  not  to  come  too,  that  I  might  go 
on  with  my  music.  He  calls  it  '  music,'  but  I  don't 
think  it  is  much  like  it." 

Now,  I  knew  who  was  there  as  well  as  if  an  angel 
had  spoken  to  me  and  said,  "  It  is  he  for  whom  you 
waited."  Had  I  not  known  in  very  assurance,  I  should 
have  forced  my  little  friend  to  go  back  with  me,  that  I 
might  not  meet  alone  a  stranger ;  as  it  was,  I  only 
longed  to  fly,  and  to  fly  alone  into  that  presence,  for 
which  I  then  felt  I  had  been  waiting,  though  I  had 
known  it  not. 

I  rushed  from  my  little  prison  enfranchised,  ecstatic  ; 
but  I  misapprehended  ray  own  sensations.  The  mag- 
netic power  was  so  appalling  that  as  I  reached  the 
threshold  of  that  other  room  a  dark  shock  came  over 


CHILD-ENTHUSIASM.  239 

my  eyes,  and  partly  from  my  haste,  in  part  from  that 
dazzling  blindness,  I  staggered  and  fell  across  the 
doorway,  and  could  not  try  to  rise. 

But  his  arm  was  round  me,  —  before  I  fell,  I  felt  it; 
and  as  I  lay  I  was  crushed,  abandoned  in  very  worship. 
None  worship  as  the  child-enthusiast  save  the  enthusiast 
who  worshipped  even  as  a  child.  I  scarcely  tried  to 
rise  ;  but  he  lifted  me  with  that  strong  and  slender  arm, 
and  set  me  upon  my  feet.  Before  he  spoke  I  spoke,  but 
I  gasped  so  wildly  that  my  words  are  not  in  my  power  to 
recall.  I  only  remember  that  I  named  him  "  our  Con- 
ductor—  the  Conductor  !  "  and  that  still,  with  his  light 
touch  on  my  shoulder,  he  turned  his  head  aside.  I 
looked  up  freely  then  ;  and  the  glance  I  then  caught  of 
that  brow,  those  eyes  half  averted,  half  bent  upon  me 
with  the  old  pitying  sweetness,  partly  shaded  by  earthly 
sympathy,  but  for  the  most  part  lifted  into  light  beyond 
my  knowledge,  —  the  one  glimpse  forewarned  me  not  to 
yield  to  the  emotions  he  raised  within  me,  lest  I  should 
trouble  him  more  than  needed.  It  was  not  a  minute,  I 
am  sure,  before  I  mastered  myself  and  stood  before  him 
firmly. 

"  Sir,  the  Herr  Aronach  is  at  the  Cecilia  School  to- 
day ;  it  is  the  first  day  of  the  grand  examination,  —  at 
least  I  believe  so ;  I  know  they  are  all  very  busy  there, 
and  have  been  so  for  some  time.  I  don't  think  the 
master  will  be  home  until  quite  the  evening,  for  he  told 
us  to  dine  alone ;  but  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  will  run 
and  bring  you  a  coach  from  the  Kell  Platz,  which  will 
take  you  to  Cecilia  in  an  hour,  —  I  have  heard  the 
master  say  so." 

He  was  looking  towards  the  window;  and  while  I 
spoke,  his  face,  so  exquisitely  pale,  grew  gradually  warm 
and  bright,  his  cheek  mantled,  his  eyes  laughed  within 
the  lashes. 


240  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  All  very  good  and  wise  and  amiable,  most  amia- 
ble !  "  said  he  ;  '^  and  such  pretty  German  too  !  But  I 
came  to  see  you,  and  not  your  master,  here  !  I  have 
been  a  long  time  coming,  but  I  could  not  get  here  be- 
fore, because  I  had  not  done  my  lessons.  I  have 
finished  them  now,  and  want  a  game  of  play.  Will  you 
have  a  game  with  me?  " 

Before  I  could  answer,  he  resumed,  in  tones  of  the 
most  ravishing  gayety, — 

"And  you  are  all  so  pale,  —  so  pale  that  I  am 
ashamed  of  you!     What  have  you  been  all  doing?" 

"  Practising,  sir,  —  at  least  not  I,  for  I  have  been 
idle  all  the  morning,  for  the  very  first  time  since  I 
came  here,  I  assure  you.  I  kept  thinking  and  thinking, 
and  expecting  and  expecting,  though  I  could  not  tell 
what,  and  now  I  know." 

"  But  I  am  still  very  much  ashamed  of  Aronach. 
Does  he  lock  you  up  ?  "  with  a  star  of  mischief  shining 
from  the  very  middle  of  each  eye. 

"Yes,  sir,  always,  as  well  as  the  others,  of  course.  I 
like  it  very  much  too  ;   it  is  so  safe." 

"  Not  always,  it  seems.  Well,  now  let  us  have  a  race 
to  the  river  ;  and  then  if  you  are  pale  still,  I  shall  take 
you  to  Cecilia,  and  show  somebody  that  it  is  a  question 
whether  he  can  keep  you  at  home,  for  all  he  bolts  you 
in.  The  day  is  so  fine,  so  beautiful,  that  I  think  the 
music  itself  may  have  a  holiday." 

"  Sir,  do  you  really  mean  it  ?  Oh,  if  you  do,  pray  let 
us  go  to  Cecilia  now  ;  for  perhaps  there  is  music  to  hear, 
and  oh  !  it  is  so  very,  very  long  since  I  heard  any." 

"  Is  it  so  dear  to  you  that  you  would  rather  seek  it 
than  all  the  sunshine  and  all  the  heart  of  spring?  Ah  ! 
too  young  to  find  that  anything  is  better  than  music, 
and  more  to  be  desired." 


/  ACCOAfFA.VV  MY  NEW  FRIEXD.  24 1 

"  Yes,  sir,  yes  !  please  to  take  me.  I  won't  be  in  the 
way,  it  will  be  enough  to  walk  by  you  ;  I  don't  want 
you  to  talk." 

''  But  I  do  want  to  talk ;  I  cannot  keep  quiet.  I  have 
a  lady's  tongue,  and  yours,  I  fancy,  is  not  much 
shorter.     We  will  therefore  go  now." 

"  This  moment,  sir  ?  Oh  !  I  would  rather  go  than 
have   the  festival  over  again." 

"  The  festival !  the  festival  !  It  is  the  festival !  Is  it 
not  to-day  a  festival,  and  every  day  in  May  ?  " 

He  looked  as  he  spoke  so  divinely  happy  that  it  is  so 
the  angels  must  appear  in  their  everlasting  spring.  I 
rushed  into  my  room  and  rummaged  for  my  cap,  also 
for  a  pair  of  new  gloves  ;  but  I  was  not  very  long,  though 
I  shook  so  violently  that  it  was  a  task  to  pull  on  those 
skins.  Returning,  I  found  him  still  at  the  window ;  he 
was  leaning  upon  the  bureau,  not  near  the  harpsichord,  not 
before  the  organ,  but  gazing,  child-like,  into  the  bright 
blue  morning.  He  was  dressed  in  a  summer  coat,  short 
and  very  loose,  that  hung  almost  in  folds  upon  his  deli- 
cate figure.  The  collar,  falling  low,  revealed  the  throat. 
so  white,  so  regal ;  and  through  the  button-hole  fluttered 
the  ribbon  of  the  Chevalier.  He  carried  also  a  robe-like 
cloak  upon  his  arm,  lined  with  silk  and  amply  tasselled. 
I  ventured  to  take  it  from  him,  but  he  gently,  and  yet 
forcibly,  drew  it  again  to  himself,  saying,  "It  is  too 
heavy  for  thee.     May  I  not  already  say  ^  thou  '  ? '" 

''  Oh,  sir,  if  you  will,  but  let  me  go  first ;  it  is  so  dark 
always  upon  the  stairs." 

"  One  does  not  love  darkness,  truly ;  we  will  escape 
together." 

He  took  my  hand,  and  I  tried  to  lead  him ;  but  after 
all,  it  was  he  who  led  me  step  by  step.     I  did  not  know 
the  road  to  Cecilia,  and  I  said  so. 
VOL.  I.  — 16 


242  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  not ;  sly  Aronach  !  But  I  do,  and 
that  is  sufficient,  is  it  not  ?  Why,  the  color  is  coming 
back  already.  And  I  see  your  eyes  begin  to  know  me. 
I  am  so  glad.  Ah  !  they  tell  more  now  than  they  will 
tell  some  day." 

"  Sir,  you  are  too  good,  but  I  thank  you.  I  like  to 
feel  well,  and  I  feel  more  than  well  to-day ;  I  am  too 
glad,  I  think." 

"  Never  too  well  or  glad,  it  is  not  possible.  Never 
too  bright  and  hopeful.  Never  too  blissfully  rejoicing. 
Tell  me  your  name,  if  you  please." 

"Sir,  my  name  is  nothing." 

"That  is  better  than  No^ifal.''  He  laughed,  as  at 
himself 

"Sir,  however  did  you  get  to  hear  that?  O!"  —  I 
quite  screamed  as  the  reminiscence  shook  me,  —  "  oh, 
sir,  did  you  write  the  'Tone-Wreath'?" 

He  gave  me  a  look  which  seemed  to  drink  up  my 
soul.  "  I  plucked  a  garland,  but  it  was  beyond  the 
Grampian  Hills." 

"  You  did  \mte  it !  I  knew  it  when  I  heard  it,  sir.  I 
am  so  delighted  !  I  knew  the  instant  she  played  it,  and 
she  thought  so  too ;  but  of  course  we  could  not  be 
quite  sure." 

He  made  the  very  slightest  gesture  of  impatience. 
"  Never  mind  the  '  Tone-Wreath ' !  There  are  May- 
bells  enough  on  the  hills  that  we  are  to  go  to." 

I  was  insensibly  reminded  of  his  race ;  but  its  bitter- 
ness was  all  sheathed  in  beauty  when  I  looked  again. 
So  beautiful  was  he  that  I  could  not  help  looking  at  his 
face.  So  we  are  drawn  to  the  evening  star,  so  to  the 
morning  roses  ;  but  with  how  different  a  spell !  For  just 
where  theirs  is  closed,  did  his  begin  its  secret,  still  at- 
traction ;  the  loveliness,  the  symmetry  were  lost  as  the 


A    CO.VFESSION  OF  LOVE.  243 

majestic  spirit  seized  upon  the  soul  through  the  sight, 
and  conquered. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  your  name.  Is  it  so  difficult 
for  me  to  pronounce  ?  I  will  try  very  hard  to  say  it, 
and  I  wish  to  know  it." 

No  "  I  will "  was  ever  so  irresistible.  —  "  Charles 
Auchester." 

"  That  is  a  tell-tale  name.  But  I  can  never  forget 
what  was  written  for  me  on  your  forehead  the  day  you 
were  so  kind  to  me  in  a  foreign  country.  Do  you  like 
me,  Charles,  —  well  enough  to  wish  to  know  me  ?  " 

I  can  never  describe  the  innocent  regality  of  his  man- 
ner here,  —  it  was  something  never  to  be  imagined,  that 
voice  in  that  peculiar  key. 

"  Sir,  I  know  how  many  friends  you  must  have,  and 
how  they  must  admire  you.  I  don't  think  any  of  them 
love  you  as  I  do,  and  always  did  ever  since  that  day.  I 
wish  I  could  tell  you,  but  it's  of  no  use.  I  can't,  though 
I  quite  burn  to  tell  you,  and  to  make  you  know.  I  do 
love  you  better  than  I  love  my  life,  and  you  are  the  only 
person  I  love  better  than  music.  I  would  go  to  the 
other  end  of  the  world,  and  never  see  you  any  more, 
rather  than  I  would  be  in  your  way  or  tire  you.  Will 
you  believe  me?  " 

"  Come  !  "  he  answered  brightly,  delicately,  "  I  know 
all  you  wish  to  say,  because  I  can  feel  myself;  but  I 
could  not  bear  you  at  the  other  end  of  the  world  just 
now,  because  I  like  you  near  me  ;  and  were  you  and  I 
to  go  away  from  each  other,  as  we  must,  I  should  still 
feel  you  near  me,  for  whatever  is,  or  has  been,  is  for- 
ever to  me." 

"  Sir,  I  can  only  thank  you,  and  that  means  more  than 
I  can  say ;  but  I  cannot  think  why  you  like  me.  It  is 
most  exquisite,  but  I  do  not  understand  it.'* 


244  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

He  smiled,  and  his  eye  kindled.  "  I  shall  not  tell 
you,  I  see  you  do  not  know ;  I  do  not  wish  for  you  to 
know.  But  tell  me  now,  will  you  not,  do  you  enter  the 
school  this  semester?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  believe  so,  —  at  least,  I  came  here  on 
purpose ;  but  Aronach  does  not  tell  us  much,  you 
know,  sir." 

"  Is  that  tall  young  gentleman  to  enter?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  —  Marc  Iskar." 

"  And  the  least,  —  how  do  you  name  him  ?  " 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  a  conception  struck  me 
through  and  through. 

"  Sir,  he  is  called  Starwood  Burney,  from  England. 
How  I  do  wish  I  might  tell  you  something  1  " 

"You  can  tell  me  anything ;  there  is  plenty  of  time  and 
room,  and  no  one  to  hear,  if  it  be  a  pretty  little  secret." 

"  It  is  a  secret,  but  not  a  little  one,  nor  pretty  either. 
It  is  about  Starwood.  I  don't  think  I  ought  to  trouble 
you  about  it,  and  yet  I  must  tell  you,  because  I  think 
you  can  do  anything  you  please." 

"  Like  a  prince  in  the  Arabian  tales,"  he  answered 
brightly ;  "  I  fear  I  am  poor  in  comparison  with  such, 
for  I  can  only  help  in  one  way." 

"  And  that  one  way  is  the  very  way  I  want,  sir.  Star- 
wood loves  the  pianoforte.  I  have  seen  him  change  all 
over  when  he  talked  of  it,  as  if  it  were  his  real  life.  It 
is  not  a  real  life  he  lives  with  that  violin." 

"  I  wish  it  had  been  thyself,  whose  real  life  it  is.  my 
child,"  he  repHed,  with  a  tenderness  I  could  ill  brook, 
could  less  account  for  ;  "  but  still  thy  wish  shall  be  mine. 
Would  the  little  one  go  with  me?  He  seems  terrified  to 
be  spoken  to,  and  it  would  make  my  heart  beat  to  flutter 
him." 

"  Sir,  that  is  just  like  you  to  say  so ;  but  I  am  very 


MUSIC-MAKING.  245 

certain  he  would  soon  love  you, — not  as  I  do,  that 
would  be  impossible,  but  so  much  that  you  would  not 
be  sorry  you  had  taken  him  away.  But  oh !  if  I  had 
known  that  you  would  take  and  teach,  I  would  never 
have  taken  up  the  violin,  but  have  come  and  thrown 
myself  at  your  feet,  sir,  and  have  held  upon  you  till  you 
promised  to  take  me.  I  thought,  sir,  somehow  that  you 
did  not  teach.'' 

"  Understand  me,  then,  that  what  I  say  I  say  to  satisfy 
you  :  you  are  better  as  you  are,  better  than  you  could 
be  with  me.  I  am  a  wanderer,  and  it  is  not  my  right  to 
teach ;  I  am  bound  to  another  craft,  and  the  only  one 
for  the  perfecting  of  which  it  is  not  my  right  to  call  my- 
self poor.     Do  you  understand,  Charles?" 

"  I  think,  sir,  that  you  mean  you  make  music,  and 
that  therefore  you  have  no  time  for  the  dirty  work." 

He  broke  into  a  burst  of  laughter,  Hke  joy-bells. 
"  There  is  as  much  dirty  work,  however,  in  what  you 
call  making  music.  But  what  I  meant  for  you  to  under- 
stand was  this,  that  I  do  not  take  money  for  instructing ; 
because  that  would  be  to  take  the  bread  from  the 
mouths  of  hundreds  I  love  and  honor.  I  have  money 
enough;  and  you  know  how  sweet  it  is  even  to  give 
money,  —  how  much  sweeter  to  give  what  cannot  be 
bought  by  money  !  I  shall  take  this  little  friend  of 
mine  to  my  own  home,  if  he  will  go  and  I  am  per- 
mitted to  do  so  ;  and  I  sliall  treat  him  as  my  son,  be- 
cause he  will,  indeed,  be  my  music-child,  and  no  more 
indebted  to  me  than  I  am  to  music,  or  than  we  all  are 
to  Jehovah." 

"  Sir,  you  are  certainly  a  Jew  if  you  say  '  Jehovah  ; ' 
I  was  quite  sure  of  it  before,  and  I  am  so  pleased." 

"  I  cannot  contradict  thee,  but  I  am  almost  sorry  thou 
knowest  there  are  even  such  people  as  Jews." 


246  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Why  so,  sir  ?  Pray  tell  me.  I  should  have  thought 
that  you,  before  all  other  persons,  would  have  rejoiced 
over  them." 

"  Why  so,  indeed  !  but  because  the  mystery  of  their 
very  name  is  enough  to  break  the  head,  and  perhaps  the 
heart.  But  now  of  this  little  one  :  he  must,  indeed,  be 
covered  as  a  bird  in  the  nest,  and  shall  be.  And  if  I 
turn  him  not  forth  a  strong-winged  wonder,  thou  wilt 
stand  up  and  have  to  answer  for  him,  —  is  it  not  so  ?  " 

*'  Sir,  I  am  certain  he  will  play  wonderfully  upon  what 
he  calls  those  '  beautiful  cold  keys.'  " 

"  Ah  !  "  he  answered  dreamily,  "  and  so,  indeed, 
they  are,  whose  very  tones  are  but  as  different  shadows 
of  the  same  one-colored  light,  the  ice-blue  darkness, 
and  the  snowy  azure  blaze.  He  has  right,  if  he  thinks 
them  cold,  to  find  them  alone  beautiful."  He  spoke  as 
if  in  sleep. 

"Sir,  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,  for  I  never 
heard  even  Milans- Andre." 

"  You  are  to  hear  him,  then ;  it  is  positively  needful." 

Again  the  raillery  pointed  every  word,  as  if  arrows 
"  dipped  in   balm." 

"  I  mean  that  I  scarcely  know  what  those  keys  are 
like,  for  I  never  heard  them  really  played,  except  by 
one  young  lady.  I  did  not  find  the  'Tone-Wreath' 
cold,  but  I  thought,  when  she  played  with  Santonio,  that 
her  playing  was  cold,  —  cold  compared  with  his ;  for 
he  was  playing,  as  you  know,  sir,  the  violin." 

"  You  are  right ;  yes.     The  violin  is  the  violet ! " 

These  words,  vividly  pronounced,  and  so  mystical  to 
the  uninitiated,  were  as  burning  wisdom  to  my  soul.  I 
could  have  claimed  them  as  my  own,  so  exactly  did 
they  respond  to  my  own  unexpressed  necessities.  But 
indeed,  and  in  truth,  the  most  singular  trait  of  the  pres- 


THE  MILL-STREAM.  247 

ence  beside  me  was  that  nothing  falling  from  his  lips 
surprised  me.  I  was  prepared  for  all,  though  every- 
thing was  new.  He  did  not  talk  incessantly,  —  on  the 
contrary,  his  remarks  seemed  sudden,  as  a  breeze  up- 
borne and  dying  mto  the  noonday.  There  was  that  in 
them  which  cannot  be  conveyed,  although  conserved,  — 
the  tones,  the  manner,  so  changeful,  yet  all  cast  in  grace 
unutterable ;  passing  from  vagrant,  never  wanton  mirth, 
into  pungent,  but  never  supercihous  gravity.  Such 
recollection  only  proves  that  the  beautiful  essence  flows 
not  well  into  the  form  of  words,  —  for  I  remember 
every  word  he  spoke,  —  but  rather  dies  in  being  uttered 
forth,  itself  as  music. 

It  was  dusty  in  the  highway,  and  we  met  no  one  for  at 
least  a  mile  except  the  peasants,  who  passed  into  the  land- 
scape as  part  of  its  picture.  The  intense  green  of  May, 
and  its  quickening  blossoms,  strewed  every  nook  and 
plantation  ;  but  the  sweetness  of  the  country,  so  exuber- 
ant just  there,  only  seemed  to  frame,  with  fitting  orna- 
ment, the  one  idea  I  contemplated,  —  that  he  was  close 
at  hand.  There  had  been  much  sun,  and  one  was 
naturally  inclined  to  shade  in  the  thrilling  May  heats, 
which  permeate  the  veins  almost  like  love's  fever,  and 
are  as  exciting  to  the  pulses. 

At  last  we  came  to  a  brook,  a  lovely  freshet,  broaden- 
ing into  a  mill-stream  ;  for  we  could  see  far  off  in  the  clear 
air  the  flash  of  that  wheel,  and^  hear  its  last  murmuring 
fall.  But  here  at  hand  it  was  all  lonely,  unspanned  by 
any  bridge,  and  having  its  feathery  banks  unspoiled  by 
any  clearing  hand.  A  knot  of  beautiful  beech-trees 
threw  dark  kisses  on  the  trembling  water ;  there  were 
wildest  rushes  here,  and  the  thick  spring  leaves  of  the 
yet  unbloomed  forget-me-not  on  either  hand.  The  blue 
hill  of  Cecilia  lay  yet  before  us,  but  something  in  ray 


248  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

companion's  face  made  me  conjecture  that  here  he 
wished  to  rest.  Before  he  even  suggested  it  I  pulled 
out  my  cambric  handkerchief,  and  running  on  before 
him,  laid  it  beneath  the  drooping  beech-boughs  on  the 
swelling  grass.  I  came  back  to  him  again,  and  entreated 
him  to  repose.  He  even  flushed  with  satisfaction  at  my 
request,  which  I  made,  as  I  ever  do,  rather  imperti- 
nendy.  He  ran,  too,  with  me,  and  taking  out  his  own 
handkerchief,  which  was  a  royal-purple  silk,  he  spread 
it  beside  mine,  and  drew  me  to  that  throne  with  his 
transparent  fingers  upon  my  hand.  I  say  "transparent," 
for  they  were  as  though  the  roseate  blood  shone  through, 
and  the  wandering  violet  veins  showed  the  clearness  of 
the  unfretted  palm.  But  it  was  a  hand  too  refined  for 
model  beauty,  too  thin  and  rare  for  the  youth,  the  al- 
most boyhood,  that  shone  on  his  forehead  and  in  his  un- 
wearied eye.  The  brightness  of  heaven  seemed  to  pour 
itself  upon  my  soul  as  I  sat  beside  him  and  felt  that 
no  one  in  the  whole  world  was  at  that  moment  so  near 
him  as  I.  He  pulled  a  few  rushes  from  the  margin,  and 
began  to  weave  a  sort  of  basket.  So  fleetly  his  fingers 
twisted  and  untwisted  themselves  that  it  was  as  if  he 
were  accustomed  to  do  nothing  but  sit  and  weave  green 
rushes  the  livelong  day. 

"  Pull  me  some  more  ! "  he  said  at  length  implor- 
ingly;  and  I,  who  had  been  absorbed  in  those  clear 
fingers  playing,  looked  up  at  him  as  I  stretched  my  arm. 
His  eyes  shone  with  the  starlight  of  pure  abstraction, 
and  I  answered  not  except  by  gathering  the  rushes, 
breaking  them  off,  and  laying  them  one  by  one  across 
his  knees.  The  pretty  work  was  nearly  finished ;  it  was 
the  loveliest  green  casket  I  could  have  fancied,  with  a 
plaited  handle.  It  looked  like  a  fairy  field-flung  treas- 
ure.    I  wished  it  were  for  me.    When  it  was  quite  ready, 


A   SWEET  VOICE.  249 

and  as  complete  and  perfect  as  Nature's  own  work,  he 
rose,  and  seizing  the  lowest  branch  of  the  swaying  beech 
grove,  hung  the  plaything  upon  it  and  said,  "  I  wish  it 
were  filled  with  ripe  red  strawberries." 

"  Why  so,  sir  ?  "  I  ventured. 

"  Because  one  would  like  to  imagine  a  little  child  find- 
ing a  green  basket  by  the  dusty  way,  filled  with  straw- 
berries." 

We  arose,  and  again  walked  on. 

"  Sir,  I  would  rather  have  the  basket  than  the  straw- 
berries." 

"  I  wish  a  httle  child  may  be  of  your  mind.  Were 
you  happy,  Charles,  when  you  were  a  little  child?  " 

"  Sir,  I  was  always  longing  to  be  a  man.  I  never  con- 
sidered what  it  was  to  be  a  little  child." 

"  Thou  art  a  boy,  and  that  is  to  be  a  man-child,  —  the 
beautiful  fate  !  But  it  is  thy  beautiful  fate  to  teach 
others  also,  as  only  children  teach." 

"I,  sir,  —  how?" 

"  Charles,  a  man  may  be  always  longing  to  be  an 
angel,  and  never  consider  what  it  is  to  be  a  man." 

His  voice  was  as  a  sudden  wind  springing  up  amidst 
solitary  leaves,  it  was  so  fitful,  so  vaguely  sweet.  I 
looked  upon  him  indeed  for  the  first  time  with  trembling, 
since  I  had  been  with  him  that  day.  He  had  fallen  into 
a  stiller  step,  for  we  had  reached  the  foot  of  the  ascent. 
It  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  was  not  expected  at 
Cecilia.  I  thought  of  nothing  but  that  I  should  ac- 
company him.  He  suddenly  again  addressed  me  in 
English. 

"  Did  St.  Michel  ever  recover  the  use  of  his  arm  ?  " 

I  was  quite  embarrassed.  "  I  never  asked  about  him, 
sir ;  but  I  daresay  he  did." 

"  I  thought  you   would   have   known.      You  should 


250  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

have  asked,  I  think.     Was  he  a  rich  man  or  a  poor 
man  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  He  was  well  off,  I  should 
suppose,  for  he  used  to  dress  a  great  deal,  and  had  a 
horse,  and  taught  all  over  the  town.  Mr.  Davy  said  he 
was  as  popular  as  Giardini." 

"  Mr.  Davy  was  who,  —  your  godfather?  " 

"  My  musical  godfather  I  should  say,  sir.  He  took 
me  to  the  festival,  and  had  I  not  accidentally  met  him  I 
should  never  have  gone  there,  have  never  seen  you.  Oh, 
sir!  —  " 

"  Nothing  is  accidental  that  happens  to  you,  to  such 
as  you.  But  I  should  have  been  very  sorry  not  to  have 
seen  you.  I  thought  you  were  a  little  messenger  from 
the  other  world." 

"  It  does  seem  very  strange,  sir,  —  at  least  two  things 
especially." 

"What  is  the  first,  then?" 

*'  First,  that  I  should  ser\^e  you  ;  and  the  second,  that 
you  should  like  me." 

"  No,  believe  me,  it  is  not  strange,"  — he  still  spoke 
in  that  beautiful  pure  English,  swift  and  keen,  as  his  Ger- 
man was  mild  and  slow,  —  "  not  strange  that  you  should 
serve  me,  because  there  was  a  secret  agreement  between 
us  that  we  should  either  serve  the  other.  Had  you  been 
in  my  place,  I  should  have  run  to  fetch  you  water ;  but  I 
fear  I  should  have  spilled  a  drop  or  two.  And  how 
could  I  but  like  you  when  you  came  before  me  like 
something  of  my  own  in  that  crowd,  that  multitude  in 
nothing  of  me?" 

"  Sir,"  I  answered,  to  save  myself  from  saying  what  I 
really  felt,  *'  how  beautifully  you  speak  English  !  " 

He  resumed  in  German  :  "  That  is  nothing,  because 
we  can  have  no  real  language.     I  make  myself  think  in 


MV  COMPANION  BECOMES  MYSTICAL.      25  I 

all.  I  dream  first  in  this,  and  then  in  that ;  so  that, 
amidst  the  floating  fragments,  as  in  the  strange  mixture 
we  call  an  orchestra,  some  accent  may  be  expressed 
from,  the  many  voices  of  the  language  of  our  unknown 
home."' 

As  he  said  these  words,  his  tones,  so  clear  and  rever- 
ent, became  mystical  and  inward.  I  was  absolved  from 
communion  with  that  soul.  His  eye,  travelling  onwards, 
was  already  with  the  lime-trees  at  the  summit  of  the  hill 
we  had  nearly  reached,  and  he  appeared  to  have  forgot- 
ten me.  I  felt  how  frail,  how  dissoluble,  were  the  fiery 
links  that  bound  my  feeble  spirit  to  that  strong  immortal. 
But  how  Httle  I  knew  it  yet ! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  school  of  Cecilia  was  not  only  at  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  it  was  the  only  building  on  the  summit ; 
it  was  isolated,  and  in  its  isolation  grand.  There  were 
cottages  in  orchards,  vine-gardens,  fertile  lands,  an  an- 
cient church,  sprinkled  upon  the  sides,  or  nestling  in  the 
slopes ;  but  itself  looked  lonely  and  consecrated,  as  in 
verity  it  might  be  named.  A  belt  of  glorious  trees,  dark 
and  dense  as  a  Druid  grove,  surrounded  with  an  older 
growth  the  modern  superstructure ;  but  its  basis  had 
been  a  feudal  ruin,  whose  entrance  still  remained ;  a 
hall,  a  wide  waste  of  room,  of  rugged  symmetry  and 
almost  twilight  atmosphere.  A  court-yard  in  front  was 
paved  with  stone,  and  here  were  carriages  and  unhar- 
nessed horses  feeding  happily.  The  doorway  of  the  hall 
was  free  ;  we  entered  together,  and  my  companion  left 
me  one  moment  while  he  made  some  arrangements  with 
the  porter,  who  was  quite  alone  in  his  corner.  Other- 
wise silence  reigned,  and  also  it  seemed  with  solitude ; 
for  no  one  peered  among  the  strong  square  pillars  that 
upheld  as  rude  a  gallery,  —  the  approach  to  which  was 
by  a  sweeping  staircase  of  the  brightest  oak  with  noble 
balustrades.  Two  figures  in  bronze  looked  down  from 
the  landing-place  on  either  hand,  and  as  we  passed  be- 
tween them  I  felt  their  size,  if  not  their  beauty,  overawe 
me  as  the  shadow  of  the  entrance.  They  were,  strange 
to  say,  not  counterparts,  though  companion  forms  of 
the   same   head,  the   same  face,  the   same  dun  laurel 


THE  SCHOOL    OF  CECILIA.  253 

crown ;  but  the  one  gathered  its  drapery  to  its  breast, 
and  stretched  its  hand  beckoningly  towards  the  portal, 
—  the  other  with  outstretched  arm  pointed  with  an  ex- 
pression almost  amounting  to  menace  down  the  gallery. 
In  niched  archways  there,  one  door  after  another  met 
the  eye,  massive  and  polished,  but  all  closed. 

I  implicitly  trusted  in  my  companion.  I  felt  sure  he 
possessed  a  charm  to  open  all  those  doors,  and  I  fol- 
lowed him  as  he  still  lightly,  as  if  upon  grass,  stepped 
from  entrance  to  entrance,  not  pausing  until  he  reached 
the  bend  of  the  gallery.  Here  was  a  door  unlike  the 
others,  —  wider,  shghter,  of  cloth  and  glass  :  and  steaHng 
from  within  those  media,  with  a  murmur  soft  as  incense, 
came  a  mist  of  choral  sounds,  confusing  me  and  cap- 
tivating me  at  once,  so  that  I  did  not  care  to  stir  until 
the  mist  dissolved  and  ceased,  and  I  was  yet  by  my  com- 
panion's side  without  the  door. 

"  We  may  enter  now,  I  think,''  he  said ;  for  he  had 
waited  reverently  as  I,  and  he  gently  pushed  those 
folds. 

They  slid  back,  and  we  entered  a  narrow  lobby,  very 
dim  and  disenchanted  looking.  Still  softly  we  proceeded 
to  another  door  within,  which  I  had  not  discovered,  and 
he  touched  that  too  with  an  air  of  subtile  and  still  autho- 
rity. I  was  dazzled  the  first  instant ;  but  he  took  my 
hand  directly,  and  drew  me  forwards  with  him  to  a  seat 
in  some  region  of  enchantment.  As  I  sat  by  him  there 
I  soon  recovered  myself  to  the  utmost,  and  beheld 
before  me  a  sight  which  I  shall  not  easily  forget,  nor 
ever  cease  to  hold  as  it  was  presented  to  me  on  that 
occasion. 

It  was  a  vast  and  vaulted  room  ;  whether  of  delicate 
or  decided  architecture  I  could  not  possibly  declare, 
such  a  dream  it  was  of  wreaths  and  mvstic  floral  arches. 


254  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

Pillars  twined  with  gold-bloomed  lime -branches  rose  bur- 
dened with  them  to  the  roof,  there  mixing  into  the  long 
festoons  of  oak-leaf  that  hung  as  if  they  grew  there  from 
the  gray-brown  rafters.  Everywhere  was  a  drooping 
odor  that  had  been  oppressive,  most  unendurably  sweet, 
but  for  the  strong  air  wafted  and  ruffling  through  the 
open  windows  on  either  hand. 

We  were  sitting  quite  behind  all  others,  on  the 
loftiest  tier  of  seats,  that  were  raised  step  by  step  so 
gently  upwards  to  the  back,  and  beneath  us  were  seats 
all  full,  where  none  turned  nor  seemed  to  talk ;  for  all 
eyes  were  surely  allured  and  riveted  by  the  scenery  to 
the  fronting  end.  It  was  a  lofty,  arched  recess,  span- 
ning the  extreme  width  of  the  hall ;  a  window,  half  a 
dome,  of  glass  poured  down  a  condensed  light  upon  two 
galleries  within,  which  leaned  into  the  form  of  the  arch 
itself,  and  were  so  thickly  interlaced  with  green  that 
nothing  else  was  visible  except  the  figures  which  filled 
them,  draperied  in  white,  side  by  side  in  shining  rows, 
—  like  angels,  so  I  thought.  Young  men  and  boys  above, 
in  flowing  robes  as  choristers,  overhung  the  maiden 
forms  of  the  gallery  below  ;  and  of  these  last,  every  one 
wore  roses  on  the  breast,  as  well  as  glistening  raiment. 
These  galleries  of  greenery  were  themselves  overhanging 
a  platform  covered  with  dark-green  cloth,  exquisitely 
fluted  at  the  sides,  and  drawn  in  front  over  three  or 
four  steps  that  raised  it  from  the  flooring  of  the  hall.  A 
band  in  two  divisions  graced  the  ground  floor.  I  caught 
the  sight  immediately;  but  upon  the  platform  itself 
stood  a  pianoforte  alone,  a  table  covered  with  dark- 
green  velvet,  and  about  a  dozen  dark-green  velvet  chairs. 
These  last  were  all  filled  except  one,  and  its  late  occu- 
pant had  pushed  that  one  chair  back  while  he  stood  at 
the  top  of  the  table,  with  something  glittering  in  his 


MIL  A  NS- ANDRE.  255 

hand,  and  other  somethings  glittering  before  him  upon 
the  dark-green  surface.  As  we  entered,  indeed,  he  was 
so  standing,  and  I  took  in  all  I  have  related  with  one 
glance,  it  was,  though  green,  so  definite. 

"Look  well  at  that  gentleman  who  stands,"  whispered 
my  guide,  most  slowly ;  "  it  is  he  who  is  dispensing 
the  prizes.  He  is  Monsieur  Milans-Andre',  whom  you 
wished  to  see." 

I  am  blessed  with  a  long  sight,  and  I  took  a  long 
survey;  but  lest  I  should  prejudice  the  reader,  my 
criticisms  shall  remain  in  limbo. 

"  When  we  heard  the  singing  it  was  that  he  had  just 
dispensed  a  medal ;  and  it  is  so  the  fellow-competitors 
hail  the  successful  student.  If  I  mistake  not,  there  is 
another  advancing ;  but  it  is  too  far  for  us  to  hear  his 
name.  Do  you  see  your  master  at  the  awful  table? 
But  soft !  I  think  his  face  is  not  this  way." 

"  Oh  !  "  I  thought,  and  I  laughed  in  my  sleeve,  "  he 
is  dreaming  I  am  safe  at  home,  if  he  dreams  about  me 
at  all,  which  is  a  question."  But  I  was  not  looking  after 
him ;  I  took  care"  to  watch  Milans- Andre',  feeling  sure 
my  guide  would  prefer  not  to  be  stared  upon  in  a  public 
place  like  that. 

The  voice  that  called  the  candidates  was  high  in  key, 
and  not  unrefined ;  but  what  best  pleased  me  was  to  see 
one  advance,  —  a  boy,  all  blushing  and  bowing  to  receive 
a  golden  medal,  which  Milans-Andre',  his  very  self,  with 
his  own  hands,  flung  round  the  youngling's  neck  by  its 
long  blue  ribbon ;  for  then  the  same  sweet  verse  in 
semi-chorus  sounded  from  the  loftiest  gallery,  the  males 
alone  repeating  it  for  their  brother.  I  could  not  dis- 
tinguish the  words,  but  the  st}'le  was  quite  aila 
Tedesca. 

Then  another  youth  approached,  and  received  more 


256  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

airily  a  silver  token,  with  the  same  blue  ribbon  and  song- 
ful welcome.  Another  and  another,  and  at  last  the 
girls  were  called. 

"  See ! "  said  my  guide,  "  they  have  put  the  ladies 
last !  That  shall  not  be  w^hen  I  take  the  reins  of  the 
committee.  Oh,  for  the  Cecilian  chivalry !  what  a 
taunting  remembrance  I  will  make  it." 

He  was  smiling,  but  I  was  surprised  at  the  eagerness 
of  his  tones. 

"Does  it  matter,  sir?"  said  I. 

"Signify?  It  signifies  so  much  the  more  that  it  is  a 
little  thing,  a  little  token.  But  it  shall  not  grow ;  it  shall 
not  swell.  See,  see  !  look,  Charles  !  what  name  was 
that?" 

I  had  not  heard  it  either,  but  the  impetuosity  in  his 
tones  was  so  peculiar  that  I  was  constrained  to  look  up 
at  him.  His  eye  was  dilated  ;  a  singular  flash  of  light 
rather  than  flush  of  color  glowed  upon  his  face,  as  if 
glory  from  the  noonday  sun  had  poured  itself  through 
the  impervious  roof.  But  his  gaze  forbade  my  gaze,  it 
was  so  fixed  and  piercing  upon  something  at  the  end  of 
the  hall.  Imperceptibly  to  myself  I  followed  it.  The 
first  maiden  who  had  approached  the  chair  was  now 
turning  to  re-pass  into  her  place.  She  was  clad,  like  the 
galleried  ones,  in  white ;  but  her  whole  aspect  was  un- 
like theirs,  for  instead  of  the  slow  step  and  lingering 
blush,  her  movement  was  a  sort  of  flight,  as  if  her  feet 
were  sandalled  with  the  wind,  back  again  among  the 
crowd ;  and  as  she  fled,  you  could  only  discern  some 
strange  gleam  of  unusual  grace  in  a  countenance  droop- 
ing, but  not  bashfully,  and  veiled  with  waves,  not  ring- 
lets, of  hair  more  dark  than  pine-trees  at  midnight; 
also,  it  was  impossible  not  to  notice  the  angry  putting 
back  of  one  gloved  hand,  which  crushed  up  the  golden 


THE  DISTRIBUTIOX  OF  THE  MEDALS.        257 

medal  and  an  end  of  the  azure  ribbon,  while  the  other 
was  trailing  upon  the  ground. 

"She  does  not  like  it;  she  is  proud,  I  suppose!" 
said  I;  and  I  laughed  almost  loud.  *'  I  thought  you 
knew  them  all,  sir?" 

''  No,  Charles,  I  was  never  here  before ;  but  as  I  am 
to  have  something  to  do  with  what  they  do  soon,  I 
thought  I  had  a  right  to  come  to-day." 

"  A  right ! "  said  I ;  *'  who  else,  if  you  had  not  the 
right,  sir?  But  still  I  wonder  how  we  got  in  so  easily, — 
I  mean  I ;  for  if  you  had  not  brought  me,  I  could  not,  I 
suppose,  have  come." 

"  It  is  this,"  he  answered  smiling,  and  he  touched  his 
professor's  cloak,  or  robe,  which  was  now  encircling  his 
shoulders,  and  waved  about  him  pliantly.  *'  They  all 
wear  the  same  on  entering  these  walls,  at  least  who  sit 
at  the  green  table." 

The  choral  welcome,  meantime,  had  pealed  from  the 
lower  galler}',  and  another  had  advanced  and  retired  from 
the  ranks  beneath.  My  companion  was  intently  gazing, 
not  at  the  maiden  troop,  but  at  the  deep  festoons  above 
us.  He  seemed  to  see  nothing  there  though,  and  the 
very  position  of  his  hands,  resting  upon  each  other  and 
entirely  relaxed,  bore  witness  to  the  languor  of  his  ab- 
straction. It  occurred  to  me  how  very  cool  they  were, 
both  those  who  distributed,  and  those  who  received  the 
medals ;  I  felt  there  was  an  absence  of  the  strict  ro- 
mance, if  I  may  so  name  it,  I  had  expected  when  I 
entered  ;  for  as  we  sat,  and  whence  we  saw,  all  was  ideal 
to  the  sight,  and  the  sense  was  even  lost  in  the  spiritual 
appreciation  of  an  exact  proportionateness  to  the  occa- 
sion. Yet  the  silence  alternating  with  the  rising  and 
abating  voices,  the  harmony  of  the  coloring  and  sha- 
dowing, the  dim  rustle  of  the  green  festoons,  the  waf- 
voL.  I-  —  17 


258  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

tures  of  woody  and  blossomy  fragrance,  the  indoor  for- 
est feeling,  so  fresh  and  wild,  —  all  should  have  stood  me 
in  stead,  perhaps,  of  the  needless  enthusiasm  I  should 
have  looked  for  in  such  a  meeting,  or  have  witnessed 
without  surprise.  I  was  not  wise  enough  at  that  time  to 
define  the  precise  degree  and  kind  of  enthusiasm  I 
should  have  required  to  content  me,  but  perhaps  it 
would  be  impossible  even  now  for  any  degree  to  con- 
tent me,  or  for  any  kind  not  to  find  favor  in  my  eyes,  if 
natural  and  spontaneously  betrayed.  The  want  I  felt, 
however,  was  just  a  twilight  preparation  of  the  faculties 
for  the  scene  that  followed. 

The  last  silver  medal  had  been  carried  from  the  table, 
the  last  white-robed  nymph  had  sought  her  seat  with  the 
ribbon  streaking  her  drapery,  when  both  the  choral  forces 
rose  and  sang  together  the  welcome  in  more  exciting 
fulness.  And  then  they  all  sat  down,  and  a  murmur  of 
voices  and  motion  began  to  roll  on  all  sides,  as  if  some 
new  part  were  to  be  played  over. 

The  band  arose  on  either  side,  and  after  a  short,  def- 
ferential  pause,  as  if  calling  attention  to  something,  com- 
menced with  perfect  precision  Weber's  "  Jubel "  over- 
ture.^ It  was  my  companion  who  told  me  its  name, 
whispering  it  into  my  ear  ;  and  I  listened  eagerly,  hav- 
ing heard  of  its  author  in  every  key  of  praise. 

I  did  not  much  care  for  the  effect,  though  it  was  as 
cool  as  needed  to  be  after  those  cool  proceedings.  I 
dearly  wanted  to  ask  him  whether  he  loved  it ;  but  it  was 
unnecessary,  for  I  could  see  it  was  even  nothing  to  him 
by  his  face.  He  seemed  passing  judgment  proudly, 
furtively,  on  all  that  chanced  around  him,  and  I  could 

1  The  Jubilee  Overture,  written  in  18 18  for  the  accession  day 
of  the  King  of  Prussia. 


MILANS-AXDRE.  259 

not  but  feel  that  he  searched  all,  governed  all  with  his 
eye  from  that  obscure  corner. 

Immediately  on  the  conclusion  of  the  overture  several 
professors  left  the  table  and  clustered  round  the  piano- 
forte. One  opened  it,  and  then  Milans-Andre  ap- 
proached, and  waving  his  creamy  gloves,  unclothed  his 
hands,  and  stood  at  the  front  of  the  platform.  Some 
boisterous  shouts  arose, — they  began  near  his  station, 
and  were  imitated  from  the  middle  benches  ;  but  there 
was  an  undemonstrative  coldness  even  in  these ;  they 
seemed  from  the  head,  not  the  heart,  as  one  might  say. 
The  artist  did  not  appear  distressed,  — indeed,  he  looked 
too  classically  self-reliant  to  require  encouragement. 

He  was  what  might  be  called  extremely  handsome. 
There  was  a  largeness  about  his  features  that  would 
have  told  well  in  a  bust,  —  they  were  perfectly  finished  ; 
also  a  Phidias  could  not  have  planed  another  polish  on 
the  most  oval  nostril,  a  Canova  could  not  have  pumiced 
unparted  lips  to  more  appropriate  curve.  His  eyes 
were  too  far  for  me  to  search,  but  I  did  not  long  to 
come  at  their  full  expression.  He  stood  elegantly, 
while  the  plaudits  made  their  way  among  the  muffling 
leaves,  and  therein  w^ent  to  sleep ;  the  golden  flowers  of 
the  Hndens  hung  down  withering,  smitten  by  the  terror 
of  his  presence  !  My  companion  —  to  my  surprise,  my 
bewilderment  even  —  applauded  also,  but,  as  it  were, 
mechanically ;  he  stood  beside  me  on  that  topmost  tier 
applauding,  but  his  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  the  roof. 
I  heard  his  voice  among  the  others,  and  it  was  just  at 
that  instant  that  some  one,  and  that  some  one  in  a  pro- 
fessor's robe,  a  gentleman  of  sage  demeanor,  started 
from  one  of  the  lower  tiers  and  looked  back  suddenly 
at  him  ;  as  suddenly  fired,  flushed,  lighted,  all  over  his 
ace,  wise  and  grave  as  it  was.     He  saw  not,  still  rapt, 


260  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

Still  looking  upwards  ;  but  I  saw  and  felt,  —  felt  certain  of 
the  impressions  received.  A  sort  of  whisper  crept  along 
the  tier,  —  a  portentous  thrill ;  one  and  another,  all 
turned,  and  before  I  could  gather  with  my  glance  who 
had  left  them,  several  seats  were  voided  beneath  us. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  heard  a  long  and  silver  thundering 
chord.  I  knew  it  was  the  reveille  of  the  wonderful 
Milans-Andre  ;  but  so  many  persons  were  standing  and 
running  that  I  could  not  see,  and  could  scarcely  hear. 
Soon  all  must  have  heard  less.  As  the  keys  continued 
to  flash  in  unmitigated  splendor,  a  rushing  noise  seemed 
arising  also  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling ;  it  was,  indeed, 
an  earnest  of  my  own  pent-up  enthusiasm  that  could  not 
be  repressed,  for  I  found  myself  shouting,  hurrahing 
beneath  my  breath,  as  all  did  around  me.  I  was  not 
mistaken  ;  some  one  opened  the  door  by  which  we  had 
entered,  gustily,  violently,  and  drew  my  companion 
away.  Before  I  thought  of  losing  him,  he  was  gone,  —  I 
knew  not  whether  led  or  carried ;  I  knew  not  whether 
aroused  or  in  the  midst  of  his  high  abstraction. 

I  pressed  downwards,  climbing  over  the  benches, 
driving  my  way  among  those  who  stood,  that  I  might 
see  all  as  well  as  feel ;  but  at  length  I  stood  upon  a  seat 
and  beheld  what  was  worth  beholding,  is  bright  to  re- 
member; but  oh,  how  hopeless  to  record!  Just  so 
might  a  painter  dream  to  pour  upon  his  canvas  an  ex- 
treme effect  of  sunset,  —  those  gorgeous  effusions  of 
golden  flame  and  blinding  roses  that  are  dashed  into  daz- 
zling mist  before  our  hearts  have  gathered  them  to  us, 
have  made  them,  in  beauty  so  blazingly  serene,  our  own. 

The  sound  of  the  keys,  so  brilliant,  grew  dulled  as  by 
a  tempest  voice  in  distance ;  not  alone  the  hurrahs,  the 
vivas,  but  the  stir,  the  crash  of  the  dividing  multitude. 
And  before  almost  I  could  believe  it,  I  beheld  moving 


A    TIDE   OF  DEAFENING  ACCLAIM.         26 1 

through  the  cloven  crowd  that  shght  and  unembarrassed 
form  ;  but  he  seemed  alone  to  move  as  if  urged  by  some 
potent  necessity,  for  his  head  was  carried  loftily,  and  there 
was  not  the  shadow  of  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

It  was  evident  that  the  people,  between  pressing  and 
thronging,  were  determined  to  conduct  him  to  the  plat- 
form ;  and  it  struck  me,  from  his  hasty  step  and  shghtly 
troubled  air,  that  he  longed  to  reach  it,  for  calm  to  be 
restored.  Milans-Andre,  meantime,  —  will  it  be  be- 
lieved?—  continued  playing,  and  scarcely  raised  his 
eyes  as  my  conductor  at  length  mounted  the  steps,  and 
seemed  to  my  sight  to  shrink  among  those  who  now 
stood  about  him.  But  it  was  hopeless  to  restore  the 
calm.  I  knew  that  from  the  first.  He  had  no  sooner 
trodden  the  elevation  than  a  burst  of  joyous  welcome 
that  drowned  the  keys,  that  drenched  the  very  ear, 
forced  the  pianist  to  quit  his  place.  No  one  looked  at 
him  of  young  or  old,  except  those  who  had  confronted 
him  at  the  table.  They  surrounded  him,  some  \Nith 
smiles  and  eager  questions ;  some  with  provoking  grav- 
ity. The  other  was  left  alone  to  stem,  as  it  were,  that 
tide  of  deafening  acclaim  ;  he  slightly  compressed  his 
lip,  made  a  slight  motion  forwards ;  he  lifted  his  hand 
with  the  slight  deprecation  that  modesty  or  pride  might 
have  suggested  alike,  —  still  hopelessly.  The  arrears  of 
enthusiasm  demanded  to  be  paid  with  interest ;  the  tram- 
pings,  the  shower-like  claps,  the  shouts,  only  deepened, 
widened  tenfold :  the  multitude  became  a  mob,  and 
frantic,  —  but  with  a  glorious  zeal !  Some  tore  handfuls 
of  the  green  adorning  the  pillars,  and  passing  it  forward, 
it  was  strewn  on  the  steps.  From  the  galleries  hung  the 
excited  children,  girls  and  boys,  and  dividing  their  bou- 
quets, rained  the  roses  upon  his  head,  that  floated,  crim- 
son and  pink  and  pearly,  to  the  green  floor  beneath  his 


262  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

feet.  With  a  sort  of  delicate  desperation  he  shook  his 
hair  from  those  dropped  flowers,  and  for  one  instant  hid 
his  face  ;  the  next,  flung  down  his  hands,  and  smiled 
a  flashing  smile,  —  so  that,  from  lip  to  brow,  it  was  as  if 
some  sunbeam  fluttered  in  the  cage  of  a  rosy  cloud, 
smihng  above,  below,  and  everywhere  it  seemed,  —  ran 
round  the  group  of  professors  to  the  piano,  and  without 
seating  himself,  without  prelude,  began  a  low  and  hymn- 
like melody. 

Oh  !  that  you  had  heard  the  lull,  like  a  dream  dying, 
dissolving  from  the  awakening  brain,  —  the  deep  and 
tremendous,  yet  living  and  breathing  stillness,  —  that 
sank  upon  each  pulse  of  that  enthusiasm  raised  and 
fanned  by  him,  and  by  him  absorbed  and  hidden  to 
brood  and  be  at  rest ! 

I  know  not  which  I  felt  the  most,  the  passion  of  that 
almost  bursting  heart  of  silence,  as  it  were,  rolled  to- 
gether into  a  purple  bud  from  its  noon-day  efflorescence 
by  the  power  that  had  alone  been  able  to  unsheathe  its 
glories,  —  or  that  stealing,  creeping  People's  Song,  that 
in  few  and  simple  chords,  beneath  one  slender,  tender 
pair  of  hands,  held  bound,  as  it  were,  and  condensed  in 
one  voice  the  voice  of  myriads.  For  myself,  I  writhed 
with  bliss,  I  was  petrified  into  desolation  by  delight ;  but 
I  was  not  singular  on  that  occasion,  for  those  around 
me  seemed  alone  to  live,  to  breathe,  that  they  might  re- 
ceive and  retain  those  few  precious  golden  notes,  and 
learn  those  glorious  lineaments,  so  pale,  so  radiant  with 
the  suddenly  starting  hectic,  as  his  hands  still  stirred  the 
keys  to  a  fiercer  inward  harmony  than  that  they  veiled 
by  touch. 

It  was  not  long,  that  holy  People's  Song ;  I  scarcely 
think  it  lasted  five  minutes,  — certainly  not  more  ;  but  the 
effect  may  be  better  conceived,  and  the  power  of  the 


A   POOR  SUCCESSOR    TO  A  MASTER  HAND.     263 

player  appreciated,  when  I  say  not  one  note  was  lost : 
each  sounded,  rang  almost  hollow,  in  the  intense  per- 
vading silence. 

"  It  is  over,"  I  thought,  as  he  raised  those  slender 
hands,  after  a  rich  reverberating  pause  on  the  final 
chord,  swelling  with  dim  arpeggios  on  the  harmony  as 
into  the  extreme  of  vaulting  distance,  —  "  it  is  over ; 
and  they  will  make  that  dreadful  noise  unless  he  plays 
again."  Never  have  I  been  so  mistaken :  but  how 
could  I  anticipate  aught  of  him  ?  For  as  he  moved  he 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  audience,  so  that  each  individ- 
ual must  have  felt  the  glance  within  his  soul, — so 
seemed  to  feel  it ;  for  it  expressed  a  command  sheathed 
in  a  supplication,  unearthly,  irresistible,  that  the  applause 
should  not  be  renewed. 

There  was  perfect  stillness,  and  he  turned  to  Milans- 
Andre  and  spoke.  Every  one  beneath  the  roof  must  have 
heard  his  words,  for  they  were  distinct  as  authoritatively 
serene.  "  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  resume  your  seat  ?  " 
And  as  if  swayed  by  some  angel  power,  —  such  as  drove 
the  ass  of  Balaam  to  the  wall,  —  the  imperial  pianist  sat 
down,  flushed  and  rather  ruffled,  but  with  a  certain 
pomp  it  was  trying  to  me  to  witness,  and  re-com- 
menced the  concerto  which  had  been  so  opportunely 
interrupted.  Attention  seemed  restored,  so  far  as  the 
ear  of  the  multitude  was  concerned ;  but  every  eye  wan- 
dered to  him  who  now  stood  behind  the  player  and 
turned  the  leaves  of  the  composition  under  present 
interpretation.  He  seemed  attentive  enough,  —  not 
the  slightest  motion  of  his  features  betrayed  an  unsettled 
thought.  His  eyes  were  bent  proudly,  but  calmly,  upon 
the  page  ;  the  rose  light  had  faded  from  his  cheek  as 
the  sunset  flows  from  heaven  into  eternity,  —  but  how 
did  he  feel?     Hopeless  to  record,  because  hopeless  to 


264  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

imagine.  Perhaps  nothing;  the  triumph  so  short  but 
bright  had  no  doubt  become  such  phantasm  as  an  un- 
noticeable  yesterday  to  one  whose  future  is  fraught  with 
expectation. 

The  concerto  was  long  and  elaborately  handled.  I 
felt  I  really  should  have  admired  it,  have  been  thereby 
instructed,  had  not  he  been  there.  But  there  is  some- 
thing grotesque  in  talent  when  genius,  even  in  repose,  is 
by.  It  is  as  the  splendor  of  a  festive  illumination  when 
the  sun  is  rising  upon  the  city  ;  that  brightness  of  the 
night  turns  pale  and  sick,  while  the  celestial  darkness  is 
passing  away  into  day.  There  was  an  oppression  upon 
all  that  I  heard,  for  something  different  had  unprepared 
me  for  anything,  everything,  except  something  else  like 
itself.  The  committee  were  again  at  the  table,  and  when 
I  grew  weary  of  the  second  movement,  I  looked  for  my 
master,  and  found  him  exactly  opposite,  but  certainly 
not  conscious  of  me.  His  beard  was  delightfully 
trimmed,  and  his  ink-black  eyebrows  were  just  as  usual ; 
but  I  had  never  seen  such  an  expression  as  that  with 
which  he  regarded  the  one.  It  was  as  if  a  stone  had 
rolled  from  his  heart,  and  it  had  begun  to  beat  like  a 
child's ;  it  was  as  if  his  youth  were  renewed,  like  the 
eagle's ;  it  was  as  if  he  were  drinking,  silently  but 
deeply,  celestial  knowledge  from  those  younger  heavenly 
eyes.  "  Does  he  love  him  so  well,  then  ?  "  thought  I. 
Oh  that  I  had  known  it,  Aronach,  for  then  I  should 
have  loved  you,  have  found  you  out !  But  of  course  you 
don't  think  we  are  worthy  to  partake  such  feeling,  and  I 
don't  know  but  that  you  are  right  to  keep  it  from  us. 
"Would  that  concerto  never  be  over?"  was  my  next 
surmise,  —  it  was  about  the  longest  process  of  exhaus- 
tion to  which  I  had  ever  been  subjected.  As  for  me,  I 
yawned  until  I  was  dreadfully  ashamed ;  but  when  I 


WEARINESS.  265 

bethought  myself  to  look  round,  lo  !  there  were  five  or 
six  just  out  of  yawns  as  well,  and  a  few  who  had  passed 
that  stage  and  closed  their  eyes.  It  never  struck  me  as 
unconscionable  that  we  should  tire,  when  we  might  gaze 
upon  the  face  of  him  who  had  shown  himself  ready  to 
control  us  all ;  indeed,  I  do  believe  that  had  there  been 
nothing  going  on,  no  concerto,  no  Milans-x-Vndre,  but 
that  he  had  stood  there  silent,  just  as  calm  and  still,  — 
we  should  never  have  wearied  the  whole  day  long 
of  feeding  upon  the  voiceless  presence,  the  harmony 
unresolved.  But  do  you  not  know,  oh,  reader  !  the 
depression,  the  protracted  suffering  occasioned  by  the 
contemplation  of  any  work  of  art  —  in  music,  in  verse, 
in  color,  or  in  form  —  that  is  presented  to  us  as  model, 
that  we  coaxed  to  admire  and  enticed  to  appreciate, 
after  we  have  accidentally  but  immediately  beforehand 
experienced  one  of  those  ideal  sensations  that,  whether 
awakened  by  Nature,  by  Genius,  or  by  Passion  suddenly 
elated,  claim  and  condense  our  enthusiasm,  so  that  we 
are  not  aware  of  its  existence  except  on  a  renewal  of 
that  same  sensation  so  suddenly  dashed  away  from  us  as 
our  sober  self  returns,  and  our  world  becomes  again  to- 
day, instead  of  that  eternal  something,  —  new,  not 
vague,  and  hidden,  but  not  lost? 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

SO  absorbed  was  1,  either  in  review  or  re  very,  that  1 
felt  not  when  the  concerto  closed,  and  should  have 
remained  just  where  1  was,  had  not  the  door  swung 
quietly  behind  me.  1  saw  who  beckoned  me  from  be- 
yond it,  and  was  instantly  with  him.  He  had  divested 
himself  of  his  cloak,  and  seemed  ready  rather  to  fly 
than  to  walk,  so  light  was  his  frame,  so  elastic  were  his 
motions.     He  said,  as  soon  as  we  were  on  the  stairs : 

*'  I  should  have  come  for  you  long  ago,  but  I  thought 
it  was  of  no  use  until  such  time  as  I  could  find  something 
you  might  eat ;  for,  Carlomein,  you  must  be  very  hun- 
gry. 1  have  caused  you  to  forego  your  dinner,  and  it 
was  very  hard  of  me  ;  but  if  you  will  come  with  me, 
you  shall  have  something  good  and  see  something 
pretty." 

''  I  am  not  hungry,  sir,"  I  of  course  replied ;  but  he 
put  up  his  white  finger,  — 

"  I  am,  though ;  please  to  permit  me  to  eat !  Come 
this  way." 

He  led  me  along  a  passage  on  the  ground-floor  of  the 
entrance  hall  and  through  an  official-looking  apartment 
to  a  lively  scene  indeed.  This  was  a  room  without  walls, 
a  sort  of  garden-chamber  leading  to  the  grounds  of  the 
Academy,  now  crowded ;  for  the  concerto  had  con- 
cluded, with  the  whole  performance,  and  the  audience 
had  dispersed  immediately,  though  not  by  the  way  we 
came,  for  we  had  met  no  one.     Pillars  here  and  there 


THE  REFRESHMENT  PAVILION.  26/ 

upheld  the  roof,  which  was  bare  to  the  beams,  and  also 
dressed  with  garlands.  Long  tables  were  spread  below, 
all  down  the  centre,  and  smaller  ones  at  the  sides,  each 
covered  with  beautful  white  linen,  and  decked  with  flut- 
tering ribbons  and  litde  knots  of  flowers.  Here  piles  of 
plates  and  glasses,  coffee-cups  and  tureens,  betokening 
the  purport  of  this  pavilion  ;  but  they  were  nothing  to 
the  baskets  trimmed  with  fruits,  the  cakes  and  fancy 
bread,  the  masses  of  sweetmeat  in  all  imaginable  pre- 
paration. The  middle  of  the  largest  table  was  built  up 
with  strawbeiTies  only,  and  a  rill  of  cream  poured  from 
a  silver  urn  into  china  bowls  at  the  will  of  a  serene 
young  female  who  seemed  in  charge.  A  great  many 
persons  found  their  way  hither,  and  were  crowding  to 
the  table,  and  the  refreshing  silence  was  only  broken  by 
the  restless  jingle  of  spoons  and  crockery.  My  guide 
smiled  with  a  sprightly  air. 

"  Come  !  we  must  find  means  to  approach  as  well, 
for  the  strawberry  pyramid  will  soon  not  have  left  one 
stone  upon  another." 

I  made  way  instantly  to  the  table,  and  with  no 
small  difficulty  smuggled  a  plate  and  had  it  filled  with 
strawberries.  I  abjured  the  cream,  and  so  did  he  to 
whom  I  returned ;  but  we  began  to  wander  up  and 
down. 

"  Let  me  recommend  you,"  said  he,  "  a  slice  of  white 
bread ;  it  is  so  good  with  strawberries ;  otherwise  you 
must  eat  some  sausage,  for  that  fruit  will  never  serve 
alone,  —  you  might  as  well  starve  entirely,  or  drink 
dew- water." 

"  I  don't  see  any  bread,"  I  answered,  laughing ;  ^'  it 
is  all  eaten." 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  he  returned,  and  with  the  air  of  Puck  he 
tripped  across  the  pavilion  to  a  certain  table  from  which 


268  CHARLES  AUCHESTER, 

the  fair  superintendent  had  flown.  The  ribbons  and 
wreaths  danced  in  the  breeze,  but  the  white  linen  was 
bare  of  a  single  loaf. 

"  I  7nust  have  some  bread  for  thee,  Carlomein ;  and 
I,  indeed,  myself  begin  to  feel  the  want  unknown  to 
angels." 

Could  this  be  the  same,  it  struck  me,  who  discoursed 
hke  an  angel  of  that  high  throng?  So  animated  was 
he,  such  a  sharp  brightness  sparkled  in  his  eyes. 

"  Somebody  has  run  away  with  the  loaf  on  purpose," 
he  continued,  with  his  dancing  smile  ;  ''  I  saw  a  charm- 
ing loaf  as  I  came  in,  but  then  the  strawberries  put  it 
out  of  my  head,  and  lo  !  it  is  gone." 

"  I  will  get  some  bread  !  "  and  off  I  darted  out  of 
the  pavilion,  he  after  me,  and  all  eyes  upon  us. 

It  was  a  beautiful  scene  in  the  air :  a  lovely  garden, 
not  too  trim,  but  diversified  with  mounds  and  tree- 
crowned  slopes,  all  furnished  with  alcoves,  or  seats  and 
tables.  Here  was  a  hum  of  voices,  there  a  fragment  of 
part-song  scattered  by  a  laugh,  or  hushed  with  reverent 
shyness  as  all  arose,  whether  sitting  or  lying,  to  uncover 
the  head  as  my  companion  passed.  There  were  groups 
of  ten  or  twelve,  five  or  six,  or  two  and  two  together ; 
many  sat  upon  the  grass,  itself  so  dry  and  mossy ;  and 
it  was  upon  one  of  these  parties,  arranged  in  half  Ely- 
sian,  half  gypsy  style,  that  my  companion  fixed  his 
thrilling  eyes. 

He  darted  across  the  grass.  "  I  have  it !  I  see  it !  " 
and  I  was  immediately  upon  his  footsteps.  These  were 
all  ladies  ;  and  as  they  wore  no  bonnets,  they  could  not 
uncover,  but  at  the  same  time  they  were  not  conscious 
of  our  approach  at  first.  They  made  a  circle,  and  had 
spread  a  linen  cloth  upon  the  fervid  floor :  each  had  a 
plate,  and  almost  every  one  was  eating,  except  a  young 


DEFIANCE   OF  ETIQUETTE.  269 

girl  in  the  very  middle  of  the  ring.  She  was  dispensing, 
slice  by  slice,  our  missing  bread-cake.  But  I  did  not 
look  farther,  for  I  was  lost  in  obsen'ing  my  guide ;  not 
understanding  his  expression,  which  was  troubled  and 
fallen,  while  his  hght  tones  shook  the  very  leaves. 

"  Ah,  the  thieves,  the  rogues,  to  steal  the  bread  from 
our  very  mouths  !  Did  I  not  know  where  I  should  find 
it?  You  cannot  want  it  all :  give  us  one  slice,  only  one 
little  shoe  I  for  we  are  starving,  as  you  do  not  know,  and 
beggars,  as  you  cannot  see,  for  we  look  like  gentlemen." 

I  never  shall  forget  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  the  lit- 
tle group  ;  all  were  scared  and  scattered  in  a  moment,  — 
all  except  the  young  lady  who  held  the  loaf  in  her  lap. 
I  do  not  say  she  stirred  not.  on  the  contrary,  it  was  the 
impulsive  grace  of  her  gesture,  as  she  swayed  her  hand 
to  a  little  mound  of  moss  by  her  side,  just  deserted,  that 
made  me  start  and  turn  to  see  her,  that  turned  me  from 
his  face  a  moment.  "Ah  !  who  art  thou?"  involunta- 
rily sounded  in  my  yet  unaverted  ear.  He  spoke  as  if  to 
me,  but  how  could  I  reply  ?  I  was  lost  as  he,  but  in  far 
other  feelings  than  his,  —  at  least  I  thought  so,  for  I  was 
surprised  at  his  ejaculatory  wonder. 

"  I  will  cut  some  bread  for  you,  sir.  if  you  will  conde- 
scend to  sit,"  said  a  voice,  which  was  as  that  of  a  child  at 
its  evening  prayer,  so  full  it  was  of  an  innocent  idlesse, 
not  naivete,  but  differing  therefrom  as  differs  the  lisp  of 
infancy  from  the  stammer  of  diffident  manhood. 

"  I  should  like  to  sit ;  come  also,  Carlomein,"  replied 
my  companion ;  and  in  defiance  of  all  the  etiquette  of 
social  Germany,  which  so  defiantly  breathes  ice  between 
the  sexes,  I  obeyed.  So  did  he  his  own  intention ;  for 
he  not  only  remained,  but  knelt  on  one  knee,  while  gaz- 
ing with  two  suns  in  his  eyes,  he  recalled  the  scattered 
company. 


270  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"Come  back!  come  back!"  he  cried;  "I  order 
you  ! "  and  his  silent  smile  seemed  beckoning  as  he 
waved  his  elfin  hand.  One  strayed  forward,  blushing 
through  the  hair ;  another  disconcerted ;  and  they  all 
seemed  sufficiently  puzzled. 

The  gathering  completed,  my  conductor  took  up  the 
basket  and  peeped  into  every  corner,  laughed  aloud, 
handed  it  about,  and  stole  no  glance  at  the  maiden  pre- 
sident. I  was  watching  her,  though  for  a  mighty  and 
thrilling  reason,  that  to  describe  in  any  measure  is  an 
expectation  most  like  despair.  Had  she  been  his  sister, 
the  likeness  between  them  had  been  more  earthly,  — 
less  appalling.  I  am  certain  it  struck  no  one  else  pres- 
ent, and  it  probably  might  have  suggested  itself  to  no 
one  anywhere  besides,  as  I  have  since  thought ;  but  me 
it  clove  through  heart  and  brain,  like  a  two-edged  sword 
whose  temper  is  light  instead  of  steel.  So  I  saw  and 
felt  that  she  partook  intimately,  not  alone  of  his  nature, 
but  of  his  inspiration ;  not  only  of  his  beauty,  but  his 
unearthly  habit.  And  now,  how  to  breathe  in  words  the 
mystery  that  was  never  explained  on  earth  !  He  was 
pure  and  clear,  his  brow  hke  sun-flushed  snow  high 
lifted  into  light,  —  her  own  dark  if  soft,  and  toned  with 
hues  of  night  from  the  purple  under-deeps  of  her  heavy 
braiding  hair.  His  features  were  of  mould  so  rare  that 
their  study  alone  as  models  would  have  superseded  by  a 
new  ideal  the  old  fresh  glories  of  the  Greek  marble 
world,  —  hers  were  flexibly  inexpressive,  all  their  splen- 
dor slept  in  uncharacteristic  outline,  and  diffused  them- 
selves from  her  perfect  eyes,  as  they  awoke  on  her  parted 
lips. 

His  eyes,  so  intense  and  penetrative,  so  wise  and  bril- 
liant, with  all  their  crystal  calm  and  rousing  fire,  were  as 
unlike  hers  as  the  sun  in  the  diamond  to  the  sun  upon 


CONTRAST,    YET  RESEMBLAXCE.  2/1 

the  lonely  sea.  In  hers  the  blue-green  transparence 
seemed  to  ser\^e  alone  as  a  mirror  to  reflect  all  hues  of 
heaven ;  in  his,  the  heaven  within  as  often  struggled 
with  the  paler  show  of  paradise  that  Nature  lent  him  in 
his  exile.  But  if  I  spoke  of  the  rest,  —  of  the  traits  that 
pierce  only  when  the  mere  veiUng  lovehness  is  rent 
asunder,  —  I  should  say  it  must  ever  bid  me  wonder  to 
have  discovered  the  divine  fraternity  in  such  genuine 
and  artless  symbol.  It  was  as  if  the  same  celestial  fire 
permeated  their  veins,  —  the  same  insurgent  longings 
lifted  their  very  feet  from  the  ground.  The  elfin  hands 
of  which  I  spoke  were  not  more  rare,  w^re  not  more 
small  and  subtile,  than  the  little  grasping  fingers  she  ex- 
tended to  offer  him  the  bread,  and  from  which  his  own 
received  it.  Nor  was  there  wanting  in  her  smile  the 
strange  immortal  sweetness  that  signaHzed  his  own,  — 
hers  broke  upon  her  parted  lips  like  fragrance,  the  fra- 
grance that  his  seemed  to  bear  from  the  bursting  buds 
of  thought  in  the  sunshine  of  inward  fancy.  But  what 
riveted  the  resemblance  most  was  the  instancy  of  their 
sympathetic  communion.  While  those  around  had 
quietly  resumed  their  occupation,  too  busy  to  talk,  — 
though  certainly  they  might  have  been  forgiven  for  being 
very  hungry,  —  he^  no  more  kneeling,  but  rather  lying 
than  sitting,  with  his  godlike  head  turned  upwards  to 
the  sky,  continued  to  accost  her,  and  I  heard  all  they 
said. 

"  I  knew  you  again  directly,  you  perceive,  but  you  do 
not  look  so  naughty  now  as  you  did  in  the  school ;  you 
were  even  angry,  and  I  cannot  conceive  why." 

"  Cannot  you,  sir?"  she  replied,  without  the  slightest 
embarrassment.  "  I  wonder  whether  you  would  like  to 
be  rewarded  for  ser\'ing  music." 

"  //  rewards  us^  you  cannot  avoid  its  reward ;  but  I 


272  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

agree  with  you  about  the  silver  and  the  gold.  We  will 
have  no  more  medals." 

"  They  like  them,  sir,  those  who  have  toiled  for  them, 
and  who  would  not  toil  but  for  the  promise  of  some- 
thing to  show." 

"  And  the  blue  ribbons  are  very  pretty." 

"  So  is  the  blue  sky,  and  they  can  neither  give  it  us 
nor  take  it  from  us ;  nor  can  they  our  reward." 

"  And  that  reward  ?  "  asked  he. 

"  Is  to  suffer  for  its  sake,"  she  answered. 

He  lifted  his  eyebrows  in  a  wondering  archness.  "  To 
suffer?  To  suffer,  who  alone  enjoy,  and  are  satisfied, 
and  glorify  happiness  above  all  others,  and  above  all 
other  things  ?  " 

"  Not  all  suffer,  only  the  faithful ;  and  to  suffer  is  not 
to  sorrow,  and  of  all  joy  the  blossom-sorrow  prepares  the 
fruit." 

"  And  how  old  are  you  whose  blossom-sorrow  I  cer- 
tainly cannot  find  in  any  form  upon  your  maiden 
presence?  " 

"  You  smile,  and  seem  to  say,  '  Thou  hast  not  yet  lived 
the  right  to  speak,  —  purchased  by  experience  the  free- 
dom of  speech.'  I  am  both  young  and  old.  I  believe 
I  am  younger  than  any  just  here,  and  I  know  more  than 
they  all  do." 

"  Was  it  pride,"  thought  I,  "  that  curled  beneath  those 
tones  so  flowery  soft?  "  for  there  was  a  lurking  bitterness 
I  had  not  found  in  him. 

"  Not  younger  than  this  one  ; "  he  took  my  hand  and 
spread  it  across  his  knee.  "  These  fingers  are  to  weave 
the  azure  ribbon  next." 

"  He  is  coming,  I  know,  but  is  not  come ;  his  name 
is  upon  the  books.  I  hope  he  will  not  be  an  out-Ceci- 
lian,  because  I  should  like  to  know  him,  and  we  cannot 


BLUE    VIOLETS.  2/3 

know  very  well  those  who  do  not  reside  within  the 
walls." 

"  He  is  one  of  my  very  friendly  ones.  Will  you  also 
be  very  friendly  with  him  ?  " 

"I  always  will.  Be  friendly  now  ! "  and  she  smiled 
upon  me  an  instant,  very  soon  letting  fall  her  eyes,  in 
which  I  then  detected  a  Spanish  droop  of  the  lids, 
though,  when  raised,  her  glance  dispelled  the  notion,  for 
the  brightness  there  shone  all  unshorn  by  the  inordinate 
length  of  the  lashes,  and  I  never  saw  eyes  so  Hght,  with 
lashes  so  defined  and  dark. 

"  So,  sir,  this  azure  ribbon  which  you  admire  is  also 
to  be  woven  for  him?  "  she  continued,  as  if  to  prolong 
the  conversation. 

"  Not  if  symbols  are  to  be  the  order  of  the  day,  for, 
Carlomein,  your  color  is  not  bluey 

"  No,  sir ;  it  is  violet,  you  said." 

"We  say  bhie  violets ^ 

"  Yes,  sir,"  she  responded  quickly.  "  So  we  say  the 
blue  sky  at  night;  but  how  different  at  night  and  by 
day  !  The  violet  holds  the  blue,  but  also  that  deeper 
soul  by  the  blue  alone  made  visible.  All  sounds  seem 
to  sleep  in  one,  when  that  is  the  viohn." 

"  You  are  speaking  too  well ;  it  makes  me  afraid  you 
will  be  disappointed,"  I  said  in  my  first  surprise.  Then, 
feeling  I  had  blundered,  "  I  mean  in  me." 

"  That  would  make  no  difference.  Music  is,  and  is 
eternal.  We  cannot  add  one  moment  to  its  eternity, 
nor  by  our  inaptitude  diminish  the  proper  glory  of  our 
art.     Is  it  not  so,  sir?*'  she  inquired  of  him. 

Like  a  little  child  somewhat  impatient  over  a  morning 
lesson,  he  shook  his  hair  back  and  sprang  upon  his  feet. 

"  I  wish  you  to  show  me  the  garden  before  I  go :  is 
this  where  you  walk?    And  where  is  the  Raphael?" 

VOL.  I. —  1 8 


2/4  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  That  is  placed  in  the  conservatory,  by  order  of  Mon- 
sieur Milans-Andre." 

"  Monsieur  myself  will  have  it  moved.  Why  in  the 
conservatory,  I  wonder?  It  should  be  at  home,  I 
think." 

'*'  It  does  look  very  well  there  to-day,  as  it  is  hung 
with  its  peculiar  garland,  —  the  white  roses." 

"  Yes,  the  angel-roses.  Oh,  come,  see,  let  us  go  to 
the  angel-roses  ! ''  and  he  ran  down  the  bank  of  grass, 
and  over  the  lawn  among  the  people. 

I  was  very  much  surprised  at  his  gleeful  impatience, 
not  knowing  a  whit  to  what  they  alluded ;  and  I  only 
marvelled  that  no  one  came  to  fetch  him,  that  we  were 
suffered  so  long  to  retain  him.  We  followed,  I  not 
even  daring  to  look  at  the  girl  who  had  so  expressed 
herself  in  my  hearing,  as  to  make  me  feel  there  were 
others  who  also  felt ;  and  turning  the  corner  of  the  pa- 
vihon,  we  came  into  the  shadow  of  a  lovely  walk  planted 
and  arched  with  lindens.  It  ran  from  a  side  door  of  the 
school  house  to  an  indefinite  distance.  We  turned  into 
this  grove,  and  there  again  we  found  him. 

"  How  green,  how  ravishing  ! "  he  exclaimed,  as  the 
sunsprent  shadows  danced  upon  the  ground.  "  Oh  !  that 
scent  of  scents,  and  sweetest  of  all  sweetnesses,  the  lin- 
den flower  !     You  hold  with  me  there,  I  think  ?  " 

"  Yes,  entirely  ;  and  yet  it  seems  just  sweet  enough  to 
promise,  not  to  be,  all  sweetness." 

"I  do  not  hold  with  you  there.  All  that  is  sweet 
we  cherish  for  itself,  —  or  I  do,  —  and  I  could  not  be 
jealous  of  any  other  sweetness  when  one  sweetness 
filled  up  my  soul." 

"  Yes,"  I  thought ;  but  I  did  not  express  it,  even  to 
myself,  as  it  now  occurs  to  me,  —  "  that  is  the  difference 
between  your  two  temperaments."      And  so  indeed  it 


THE   CONSERVATORY.  275 

was  :  he  aspired  so  high  that  he  could  taste  all  sweetness 
in  every  sweetness,  even  here ;  she  —  younger,  weaker, 
frailer  —  could  only  lose  herself  between  the  earth  and 
heaven,  and  dared  not  cherish  any  sweetness  to  the 
utmost,  while  here  unsafely  wandering. 

"  And  this  conservatory,  —  how  do  you  use  it  ?  " 

"  We  do  not  use  it  generally ;  we  may  walk  round  it : 
but  on  state  occasions  refreshments  are  served  there  to 
our  professors  and  their  friends.  I  daresay  it  will  be 
so  to-day." 

"  There  will  be  people  in  there,  you  mean  ?  In  that 
case  I  think  I  shall  remain,  and  sun  myself  on  the  out- 
side. You,  Carlomein,  shall  go  in  and  look  at  the 
picture  for  me." 

"  Is  it  a  picture,  sir?  But  I  cannot  see  it  for  you  j  I 
should  be  afraid.     I  wish  you  would  come  in,  sir  ! " 

"  Ah,  I  know  why  !  You  are  frightened  lest  Aronach 
should  pounce  upon  you,  —  is  it  not  t  " 

I  laughed.     "A  little,  sir." 

"  Well,  in  that  case  I  will  come  in.  It  does  look  in- 
viting, —  pretty  room  !  " 

We  stopped  at  the  conservatory  door.  It  was  rather 
large,  and  very  long ;  a  table  down  the  centre  was 
dressed  with  flowers,  and  overflowing  dishes  decked 
the  board.  There  were  no  seats,  but  a  narrow  walk 
ran  round,  and  over  this  the  foreign  plants  were  grouped 
richly,  and  with  excelling  taste.  The  roof  was  not 
curtained  with  vine-leaves,  as  m  England,  but  it  was 
covered  with  the  immense  leaves  and  ivory-yellow  blos- 
soms of  the  magnolia  grandiflora,  which  made  the  small 
arched  space  appear  expanded  to  immensity  by  the 
largeness  of  its  type,  and  gave  to  all  the  exotics  an  air 
of  home. 

At  the  end  of  the  vista,  some  thirty  feet  in  length. 


2-]^  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

there  were  several  persons  all  turned  from  us ;  and  as 
we  crept  along,  one  by  one,  until  we  reached  that  end, 
the  odors  of  jasmine  and  tuberose  were  heavy  upon 
every  breath.  I  felt  as  if  I  must  faint  until  we  attained 
that  point  where  a  cool  air  entered ;  refreshing,  though 
itself  just  out  of  the  hottest  sunshine  I  had  almost  ever 
felt.  This  breeze  came  through  arched  doors  on  either 
hand  half  open  and  met  in  two  embracing  currents  where 
the  picture  hung.  All  were  looking  at  the  picture,  and 
I  instantly  refrained  from  criticism.  It  was  hung  by  in- 
visible cords  to  the  framework  of  the  conservatory,  and 
thence  depended.  About  it  and  around  it  clustered 
the  deep  purple  bells  and  exquisite  tendrils  and  leaves 
of  the  maurandia,  while  the  scarlet  passion-flower  met  it 
above  and  mingled  its  mystic  splendors.  Other  strange 
glories,  but  for  me  nameless,  pressing  underneath,  shed 
their  glowing  smiles  from  fretted  urns  or  vases ;  but 
around  the  frame,  and  so  close  to  the  picture  as  to  hide 
its  other  frame  entirely,  lay  the  cool  white  roses,  in  that 
dazzhng  noon  so  seeming,  and  amidst  those  burning 
colors.  The  picture  itself  was  divine  as  painting  can 
render  its  earthly  ideal,  so  strictly  significant  of  the  set 
rules  of  beauty.  All  know  the  "  Saint  Cecilia "  of 
Raphael  d'  Urbino  ;  this  was  one  of  the  oldest  copies, 
and  was  the  greatest  treasure  of  the  committtee,  having 
been  purchased  for  an  extravagant  sum  by  the  president 
from  the  funds  of  the  foundation,  —  a  proceeding  I  did 
not  clearly  comprehend,  but  was  too  ignorant  to  tamper 
with.  It  was  the  young  lady  who  enlightened  me  as  I 
stood  by  her  side.  Of  those  who  stood  there  I  con- 
cluded the  most  part  had  already  refreshed  themselves  ; 
they  held  plates  or  glasses,  and  in  a  few  moments  first 
one  and  then  another  recognized  our  companion,  and 
that  with  a  reverential  impressiveness  it  charmed  me  to 


THE  RIVAL  PROFESSORS  MEET.  277 

behold.  It  may  hav^e  been  the  result  of  his  exquisitely 
bright  and  simple  manner,  for  he  had  wholly  put  aside 
the  awful  serene  reserve  that  had  controlled  the  crowd 
in  public.  Milans-Andr^  happened  to  be  there ;  I  be- 
held him  now,  and  also  saw  that,  taking  hold  upon  that 
arm  I  should  not  have  presumed  to  touch,  he  drew  on 
our  guide  as  if  away  from  us.  But  this  one  stayed,  and 
resting  his  hand  upon  the  table,  inquired  with  politeness 
for  a  court,  — 

"  Where  is  your  wife  ?  Is  she  here  to-day  ?  I  want 
to  show  her  to  a  young  gentleman." 

Milans-i\ndre  looked  down  upon  him,  for  he  was 
quite  a  head  taller,  though  not  tall  himself.  "  She  is 
here,  but  not  in  here.  I  left  her  with  the  Baroness  Sil- 
berung.  Come  and  see  her  in-doors.  She  will  be 
highly  flattered." 

"  No,  I  am  not  coming  ;  I  have  two  children  to  take 
charge  of.     Where  is  Professor  Aronach  ?  " 

"  In  the  committee-room,  and  in  a  great  rage,  —  with 
you,  too,  it  appears.  Chevalier." 

"  With  me,  is  it?     I  am  so  glad  !  " 

He  stepped  back  to  us. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  any  one  can  make  him  so 
angry  as  I  can  !     It  is  charming,  Carlomein  !  " 

Oh,  that  name,  that  dear  investment !  How  often  it 
thrilled  me  and  troubled  me  with  delight  that  day. 

'^  I  suppose,  sir,  I  have  something  to  do  with  it." 

Before  he  could  reply,  Milans-Andre  had  turned 
back,  and  with  scornful  complacency  awaited  him 
near  a  glass  dish  of  ices  dressed  with  ice-plant.  He 
looked  revengeful,  too,  as  he  helped  himself;  and 
on  our  coming  up,  he  said,  "  Do  you  eat  nothing. 
Chevalier?"  while  filling  a  plate  with  the  pink-frozen 
strawberry. 


2/8  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Oh !  I  could  eat  it,  if  I  would ;  for  who  could  resist 
that  rose-colored  snow  ?  But  I  have  no  time  to  eat ;  I 
must  go  find  Aronach,  for  I  dreamed  I  should  find  him 
here." 

"  My  dear  ChevaHer,  drink  then  with  me  !  " 

'*  In  Rhine  wine  ?  Oh,  yes,  mein  Herr  Professor  ! 
and  let  us  drink  to  all  other  professors  and  chevaUers  in 
ourselves  represented." 

The  delicately  caustic  tones  in  which  he  spoke  were, 
as  it  were,  sheathed  by  the  unimpeachable  grace  of  his 
demeanor  as  he  snatched  first  one,  and  then  another,  and 
the  third,  of  three  tall  glasses,  and  filling  them  from  the 
tapering  bottle  to  the  brim,  presented  one  to  the  lovely 
girl  who  had  screened  herself  behind  me,  one  to  myself, 
and  the  third  to  himself;  all  the  while  regarding  Milans- 
Andre,  who  was  preparing  his  own,  with  a  mirthful  ex- 
pression, still  one  of  the  very  sweetest  that  could  allure 
the  gaze. 

When  Andr^  looked  up,  he  turned  a  curious  paleness, 
and  seemed  almost  stoned  with  surprise.  I  could 
neither  understand  the  one  nor  the  other  ;  but  after  our 
pledge,  which  we  two  heartily  responded  to,  my  maiden 
companion  gave  me  a  singular  beckoning  nod,  which 
the  instant  reminded  me  of  Miss  Lawrence,  and  at  the 
same  time  moved  and  stood  four  or  five  steps  away. 
I  followed  to  the  pomegranate  plant. 

''  Come  even  closer,"  she  whispered ;  "  for  I  daresay 
you  are  curious  about  those  two." 

If  she  had  not  been,  as  she  was,  most  unusually 
beautiful  to  behold,  I  should  dearly  have  grudged  her 
that  expression,  —  ^'  those  two  ;  "  but  she  constrained 
me  by  her  sea-blue  eyes  to  attentive  silence. 

"  You  see  what  a  power  has  the  greater  one  over  the 
other.    I  have  never  seen  him  before,  but  my  brother  has 


"THE   CHEVALIER  SERAPHAEL?'  2jg 

told  me  about  him  ;  besides,  here  he  is  worshipped,  and 
no  wonder.  The  Cecilia  School  was  founded  by  one 
Gratianos,  a  Bachist,  about  forty  years  ago,  but  not  to 
succeed  all  at  once,  of  course  ;  the  foundations  were  too 
poor,  and  the  intentions  too  subhme.  Louis  Spohr's 
works  brought  us  first  into  notice,  because  our  students 
distinguished  themselves  at  a  certain  festival  four  years 
ago.  The  founder  died  about  that  time,  and  had  not 
Milans-Andre  put  himself  in  the  way  to  be  elected  presi- 
dent, we  should  have  gone  to  nothing ;  but  he  was  rich, 
and  wanted  to  be  richer,  so  he  made  of  us  a  speculation, 
and  his  name  was  sufficient  to  fill  the  classes  from  all 
parts  of  Europe.  But  we  should  have  worse  than  gone 
to  nothing  soon,  for  we  were  slowly  crystallizing  into  the 
same  order  as  certain  other  musical  orders  that  shall  not 
be  named,  for  perhaps  you  would  not  know  what  I 
mean  by  quoting  them." 

"  I  could,  if  you  would  explain  to  me,  and  I  suppose 
you  mean  the  music  that  is  studied  is  not  so  select  as  it 
should  be." 

"  That  is  quite  enough  to  the  purpose,"  she  pro- 
ceeded, with  quite  an  adult  fluency.  "  About  three 
months  ago  we  gave  a  great  concert.  The  proceeds 
were  for  enlarging  the  premises,  and  we  had  a  great 
crowd,  —  not  in  the  room  we  used  to-day,  which  is  new, 
but  in  the  large  room  we  shall  now  keep  for  rehearsals. 
After  the  concert,  which  Andre'  conducted,  and  at  which 
all  the  prodigies  assisted,  the  conductor  read  us  a  let- 
ter. It  was  from  one  we  had  all  heard  of,  and  whom 
many  of  us  loved  secretly,  and  dared  not  openly,  for 
reasons  sad  and  many,  —  from  the  '  Young  Composer/ 
as  Andr^  satirically  chose  to  call  him,  the  Chevalier 
Seraphael." 

''Oh!"  I  cried,  "is  that  his  name?    What  a  won- 


280  CHARLES  AUC HESTER. 

derful  name !  It  is  like  an  angel  to  be  called 
Seraphael." 

"  Hush !  none  of  that  now,  because  I  shall  not  be 
able,  perhaps,  to  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  know  be- 
fore you  come  here.  Seraphael  had  just  refused  the 
post  of  Imperial  pianist,  which  had  been  pressed  upon 
him  very  earnestly ;  and  the  reason  he  gave  for  refusing 
it  certainly  stands  alone  in  the  annals  of  artistic  policy, 
—  that  there  was  only  one  composer  living  to  whom  the 
office  of  Imperial  pianist  should  be  confided,  and  by 
whom  it  must  be  assumed,  —  Milans- Andre  himself. 
Then  it  went  on  to  insinuate  that  by  exclusive  exchange 
only  could  such  an  arrangement  be  effected ;  in  short, 
that  Milans-Andre,  who  must  not  go  out  of  Austria, 
should  be  prevailed  upon,  in  that  case,  to  resign  the 
humble  position  that  detained  him  here,  to  the  young 
composer  himself.  Now  Milans-Andre  did  resign,  as 
you  may  suppose;  but,  they  say,  not  without  a  dou- 
ceur, and  we  presented  him  with  a  gold  beaker  engraved 
with  his  own  arms,  when  he  retired,  —  that  was  not  the 
douceur,  mind  ;  he  had  a  benefit." 

"  That  means  a  concert,  with  all  the  money  it  brought 
for  himself.  But  why  did  you  not  see  the  Chevaher  until 
to-day?" 

"  Some  of  ours  did,  —  the  band  and  the  chorus  ;  but 
I  do  not  belong  to  either.  You  have  no  idea  what  it  is 
to  serve  music  under  Milans-Andr^  ;  and  when  he  came 
to-day,  we  all  knew  what  it  meant,  who  were  wishing  for 
a  new  life.  It  was  a  sort  of  electric  snapping  of  our 
chains  when  he  played  to-day." 

"With  that  Volkslied?" 

"Yes,"  she  responded,  with  tremulous  agitation, 
' '  with  that  Volkslied.  Who  shall  say  he  does  not  know 
all  hearts?" 


A   SONG   WITHOUT   WORDS.  28 1 

"  But  it  is  not  a  Burschen  song,^  nor  like  one  ;  it  is 
like  nothing  else." 

"  No,  thank  God  !  a  song  for  the  women  as  well  as 
the  men.  You  never  heard  such  tones,  nor  I.  Well  it 
was  that  we  could  put  words  to  them,  everybody  there." 

"  And  yet  it  was  a  song  without  words,"  said  a  voice 
so  gentle  that  it  stole  upon  my  imagination  like  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  sir,  is  it  you?" 

I  started,  for  he  was  so  near  to  us  I  was  afraid  he 
might  have  been  vexed  by  hearing.  But  she  was  un- 
changed, unruffled  as  a  flower  of  the  conservatory  by  the 
wind  without.  She  looked  at  him  full,  and  he  smiled 
into  her  very  eyes. 

"  I  only  heard  your  very  last  words.  Do  not  be 
afraid,  for  I  knew  you  were  talking  secrets,  and  that  is 
a  play  I  never  stop.  But,  Carlomein,  when  you  have 
played  your  play,  I  must  carry  you  to  your  master, 
whom  I  might  call  ours,  and  beg  his  pardon  for  all  my 
iniquities." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  as  if  you  needed,"  I  said  ;  but  the  young 
lady  answered,  — 

*'  /  shall  retreat,  then,  sir,  — and  indeed  this  is  not 
my  place." 

She  courtesied  lowly  as  to  a  monarch,  but  without  a 
shadow  of  timidity,  or  so  much  as  the  flutter  of  one  rose- 
leaf,  and  passed  out  among  the  flowers,  he  looking  after 
her  strangely,  wistfully. 

"  Is  not  that  a  Cecilia,  Carlomein?" 

"  If  you  think  so,  sir." 

''You  do  not  think  it?  You  ought  to  know  as  well 
as  I.     As  she  is  gone,  let  us  go." 

1  The  Volkslied  is  a  people's  song ;  the  Burschenlied  a  stu- 
dent's song. 


282  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

And  lightly  as  she  fled,  he  turned  back  to  follow  her. 
But  we  had  lost  her  when  we  came  into  the  garden.  As 
he  passed  along,  however,  also  among  the  flowers,  he 
touched  first  one  and  then  another  of  the  delicate  plants 
abstractedly,  until  at  length  he  pulled  off  one  blossom  of 
an  eastern  jasmine,  —  a  beautiful  specimen,  white  as  his 
own  forehead,  and  of  perfume  sweetest  next  his  breath. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  he  gayly,  "  I  have  bereaved  the  soft 
sisterhood ;  but,"  he  added  earnestly,  as  he  held  the 
pale  blossom  between  his  fairest  fingers,  *'I  wonder 
whether  they  are  unhappy  so  far  from  home.  I  wonder 
whether  they  know  they  are  away  ! " 

"  I  should  think  not,  sir,  or  they  would  not  blossom 
so  beautifully." 

"  That  is  nothing,  and  no  reason,  O  Carlomein  !  for 
I  have  seen  such  a  beautiful  soul  that  was  away  from 
home,  and  it  was  very  homesick ;  yet  it  was  so  fair,  so 
very  fair,  that  it  would  put  out  the  eye  of  this  little 
flower." 

I  could  not  help  saying,  or  quickly  murmuring  rather, 
"  It  must  be  your  soul  then,  sir." 

"Is  it  mine  to  thee?  It  is  to  me  another;  but 
that  does  not  spoil  thy  pretty  compliment. " 

I  never  heard  tones  so  sweet,  so  infantine.  But  we 
had  reached  the  door  of  the  glass  chamber,  and  I  then 
observed  that  he  was  gazing  anxiously  —  certainly  with 
inquiry  —  at  the  sky.  At  that  moment  it  first  struck  me 
that  since  our  entrance  beneath  the  shadowy  greenness 
the  sun  had  gone  in.  Simultaneously  a  shade,  as  from 
a  springing  cloud,  had  fallen  upon  that  brilliant  coun- 
tenance. We  stepped  out  into  the  linden  grove,  and 
then  it  came  upon  me,  indeed,  that  the  heavens  were 
dulled,  and  a  leaden  languor  had  seized  upon  the  fresh 
young  foliage.     Both  leaves  and  yellow  blossom  hung 


A   FLASH  OF  LIGHTNING.  283 

wearily  in  the  gloom,  and  I  felt  the  intense  lull  that  pre- 
cedes an  electric  shower.  I  looked  at  him.  He  was 
entirely  pale,  and  the  soft  lids  of  his  eyes  had  dropped, 
—  their  lights  had  gone  in  like  the  sun.  His  lips  seemed 
to  flutter,  and  he  spoke  with  apprehensive  agitation. 

"  I  think  it  will  rain,  but  we  cannot  stay  in  the  con- 
servatory." 

"  Sir,  it  will  be  dry  there,"  I  ventured. 

"  No,  but  if  it  should  thunder." 

At  the  very  instant  the  western  cloudland,  as  it  were, 
shook  with  a  quivering  flash,  though  very  far  off;  for  the 
thunder  was,  indeed,  but  a  mutter  several  minutes  after- 
wards. But  he  seemed  stricken  into  stillness,  and  moved 
not  from  the  trees  at  the  entrance  of  the  avenue. 

"  Oh  !  sir,"  I  cried,  —  I  could  not  help  it,  I  was  in 
such  dread  for  him,  —  "do  not  stand  under  the  trees. 
It  is  a  very  little  way  to  the  house,  and  we  can  run." 

"  Run,  then,"  he  answered  sweetly.  ''  But  I  cannot ; 
I  never  could  stir  in  a  storm." 

"  Pray,  sir,  oh  pray,  come  ! "  the  big  drops  were  be- 
ginning to  prick  the  leafy  calm.  ' '  And  you  will  take 
cold  too,  sir.     Oh,  come  !  " 

But  he  seemed  as  if  he  could  scarcely  breathe.  He 
pressed  his  hands  on  his  brow  and  hid  his  eyes.  I 
thought  he  was  going  to  faint ;  and  under  a  vague  im- 
pression of  fetching  assistance,  I  rushed  down  the 
avenue. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

I  CAN  never  express  my  satisfaction  when,  two  or 
three  trees  from  the  end,  I  met  the  magic  maiden 
herself,  all  hooded,  and  carrying  an  immense  umbrella. 

"Where  is  this  Chevaher  of  ours?"  she  asked  me, 
with  eagerness.  "  You  surely  have  not  left  him  alone  in 
the  rain  ?  " 

"  I  was  coming  for  you,"  I  cried ;  for  such  was,  in 
fact,  the  case.  But  she  noticed  not  my  reply,  and  sped 
fleetly  beneath  the  now  weeping  trees.  I  stood  still, 
the  rain  streaming  upon  my  head,  and  the  dim  thunder 
every  now  and  then  bursting  and  dying  mournfully,  yet 
in  the  distance,  when  I  heard  them  both  behind  me. 
How  astonished  was  I  !  I  turned  and  joined  them. 
They  were  talking  very  fast,  —  the  strange  girl  having 
her  very  eyes  fixed  on  the  threatening  sky,  at  which  she 
laughed.  He  was  not  smiling,  but  seemed  borne  along 
by  some  impulse  he  could  not  resist,  and  was  even  un- 
conscious of;  he  held  the  umbrella  above  them  both, 
and  she  cried  to  me  to  come  also  beneath  the  canopy. 
We  had  only  one  clap  as  we  crossed  the  lawn,  —  now 
reeking  and  deserted ;  but  a  whole  levee  was  in  the  re- 
freshment paviHon  waiting  for  the  monarch,  —  so  many 
professors  robed,  so  many  Cecilians  with  their  badges, 
that  I  was  ready  to  shrink  into  a  nonentity,  instead  of 
feeling  myself  by  my  late  privilege  superior  to  all.  Every 
person  appeared  to  turn  as  we  made  our  way.  But  for 
all  the  clamor  I  heard  him  whisper,  ''  You  have  done 


«  YOU  ARE  ALL  MUSIC"  285 

with  me  what  no  one  ever  did  yet ;  and  oh  !  I  do  thank 
you  for  being  so  kind  to  the  foolish  child.  But  come 
with  me,  that  I  may  thank  you  elsewhere." 

"  I  would  rather  stay,  sir.  Here  is  my  place,  and  I 
went  out  of  my  place  to  do  you  that  little  service  of 
which  it  is  out  of  the  question  to  speak." 

"  You  must  not  be  proud.  Is  it  too  proud  to  be 
thanked,  then?" 

With  the  gentlest  grace,  he  held  out  to  her  the  single 
jasmine  blossom.  "  See,  no  tear  has  dropped  upon  it. 
Will  you  take  its  last  sigh  ?  " 

She  drew  it  down  into  her  hand,  and,  almost  as  airily 
as  he  moved,  glided  in  among  the  crowd,  which  soon 
divided  us  from  her. 

Seraphael  himself  sighed  so  very  softly  that  none  could 
have  heard  it :  but  I  saw  it  part  his  hps  and  heave  his 
breast. 

"She  does  not  care  for  me,  you  see,"  he  said,  in  a 
sweet,  half  pettish  manner,  as  we  left  the  pavilion. 

"  Oh !  sir,  because  she  does  not  come  with  you  ? 
That  is  the  very  reason,  because  she  cares  so  much." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out?" 

"  I  remember  the  day  I  brought  you  that  water,  sir, 
how  I  was  afraid  to  stay,  although  I  would  have  given 
everything  to  stay  and  look  at  your  face ;  and  I  ran 
away  so  fast  because  of  that." 

"  Oh,  Carlomein,  hush  !  or  you  must  make  me  vain. 
I  wonder  very  much  why  you  do  like  me ;  but,  pray,  let 
it  be  so." 

"  Like  you !  "  I  exclaimed,  as  we  moved  along  the 
corridor,  "  you  are  all  music,  —  you  must  be ;  for  I 
knew  it  before  I  had  heard  you  play." 

"They  do  say  so.  I  wonder  whether  it  is  true,"  said 
he,  laughing  a  bright,  sudden  laugh,  as  brightly  sound- 


286  CHARLES  A  UC HESTER. 

ing  as  his  smile  was  bright  to  gaze  on.  ^^  We  shall  all 
know  some  time,  I  suppose.  Now,  Carlomein,  what  am 
I  to  say  to  this  master  of  yours  about  you  ?  For  here  we 
are  at  the  door,  and  there  is  he  inside." 

"  Pray,  sir,  say  what  you  like,  and  nothing  if  you  like, 
for  I  don't  care  whether  he  storms  or  not." 

"  '  Storms '  is  a  very  fine  word  ;  but,  like  our  thunder, 
I  expect  it  will  go  off  very  quietly.  How  kind  it  was  not 
to  thunder  and  lighten  much,  and  to  leave  off  so  soon  !  " 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad.     I  hate  thunder  and  lightning." 

"  Do  you  ?  and  yet  you  ran  for  me.  Thank  you  for 
another  little  lesson." 

He  turned  and  bowed  to  me,  not  mockingly,  but  with 
a  sweet,  grave  humor.  He  opened  the  door  at  that 
moment,  and  I  went  in  behind  him.  The  very  first  per- 
son I  saw  was  Aronach,  sitting,  as  if  he  never  intended 
to  move  again,  in  a  great  wooden  chair,  writing  in  a 
long  book,  while  other  attentive  worthies  looked  over 
his  shoulder.  His  eyes  were  down,  and  my  companion 
crept  round  the  room  next  the  wall  as  noiselessly  as  a 
walking  shadow.  Then  behind  the  chair,  and  putting 
up  his  finger  to  those  around,  he  embraced  with  one 
arm  the  chair's  stubborn  back,  and  stretched  the  other 
forwards,  spreading  his  slender  hand  out  wide  into  the 
shape  of  some  pink,  clear  fan-shell,  so  as  to  intercept 
the  view  Aronach  had  of  his  long  book  and  that  unknown 
writing. 

"  Der  Teufel !  "  growled  Aronach,  "  dost  thou  suppose 
I  don't  know  thy  hand  among  a  thousand?  But  thy 
pranks  won't  disturb  me  any  more  now  than  they  did 
of  old.     Take  it  off,  then,  and  thyself  too." 

"  Oh !  I  daresay ;  but  I  won't  go.  I  want  to  show 
thee  a  sight,  Father  Aronach." 

He  then  drew  my  arm  forwards,  and  held  my  hand 


ARONACH  DISTURBED.  287 

by  the  wrist,  as  by  a  handle,  just  under  Aronach's  nose. 
He  looked  indeed  now ;  and  so  sharply,  snappishly,  that 
I  thought  he  would  have  bitten  my  fingers,  and  felt  very 
nervous.  Seraphael  broke  into  one  of  his  laughter 
chimes,  but  still  dangled  my  member ;  and  when  Aro- 
nach  really  saw  my  phiz,  he  no  longer  snapped  nor 
roused  up  grandly,  but  sank  back  impotent  in  that 
enormous  chair.  He  winked  indeed  furiously,  but  his 
eyes  did  not  flash,  so  I  grew  still  in  my  own  mind,  and 
thought  to  speak  to  him  first,  I  said,  somehow,  and 
never  thinking  a  creature  was  by,  except  that  companion 
of  mine,  — 

''  Dear  master,  I  would  not  have  come  without  your 
leave.  But  you  know  very  well  I  could  not  refuse  this 
gentleman,  because  he  is  a  friend  of  yours,  and  you  said 
yourself  we  must  all  obey  him." 

"  Whippersnapper  and  dandiprat !  I  never  said  such 
words  to  thee.  I  regard  him  too  much  to  inform  such 
as  thou  with  obedience.  Thou  hast,  I  can  see  very 
clearly,  made  away  with  all  his  spirit  by  thy  frivolities, 
and  I  especially  commend  thee  for  dragging  such  as  he 
up  the  hill  in  this  heat.  There  are  no  such  things  as 
coaches  in  the  Kell  Platz,  I  suppose,  or  have  the  horses 
taken  a  holiday  too  ?  " 

"  Stop,  stop,  Aronach  !  for  though  I  am  a  little  boy," 
said  the  other,  "  I  am  bigger  than  he,  and  I  brought 
him,  not  he  me ;  and  I  dragged  him  thither  too,  for  I 
don't  like  your  coaches.  And  it  is  I  who  ought  to  beg 
pardon  for  taking  him  from  work  he  likes  so  much 
better  than  any  play,  as  he  told  me.  But  I  did  want  to 
walk  with  him,  that  I  might  ask  him  about  my  English 
friends,  with  whom  he  is  better  acquainted  than  I  am. 
He  does  know  them,  oh,  so  well  !  and  had  so  many 
interesting  anecdotes  !  " 


288  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

At  the  utterance  of  this  small  white  fib  I  was  almost 
in  fits  ;  but  he  still  went  on,  — 

"  I  know  I  have  done  very  wrong,  and  I  was  an  idle 
boy  to  tempt  him  ;  but  you  yourself  could  not  help  play- 
ing truant  to-day.  And,  dearest  master,"  —  here  his 
sweet,  sweet  voice  was  retrieved  from  the  airy  gayety, 
— "  do  let  me  come  back  with  you  to-day,  and  have 
a  story^-telling.  You  have  not  told  me  a  story  for  a 
sad  long  time." 

"  If  you  come  back.  Chevalier,  and  if  we  are  to  get 
back  before  bed-time,  I  would  have  you  go  along  and 
rest,  if  you  can,  until  I  shall  be  free ;  for  I  shall  never 
empty  my  hands  while  you  are  by." 

Aronach  did  not  say  "  thou  "  here,  I  noticed,  and  his 
voice  was  even  courteous,  though  he  still  preserved  his 
stateliness.  Like  a  boy,  indeed,  Seraphael  laid  hold  of 
my  arm  and  pulled  me  from  the  room  again.  I  cannot 
express  the  manly  indignation  of  the  worthies  we  left  in 
there  at  such  sportiveness.  They  all  stood  firm,  and  in 
truth  they  were  all  older,  both  in  body  and  soul,  than 
we.  But  no  sooner  were  we  outside  than  he  began  to 
laugh,  and  he  laughed  so  that  he  had  to  lean  against  the 
wall.     I  laughed  too  ;  it  was  a  most  contagious  spell. 

"  Now,  Carl,"  he  said,  "  very  Carlomein !  we  will 
make  a  tour  of  discovery.  I  declare  I  don't  know  where 
I  am,  and  am  afraid  to  find  myself  in  the  young  ladies' 
bedrooms.  But  I  want  to  see  how  things  are  carried  on 
here." 

We  turned  this  way  and  that  way,  he  running  down 
all  the  passages  and  trying  the  very  doors ;  but  these 
were  all  locked. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  exclaimed,  vivaciously,  "  they  are,  I  sup- 
pose, too  fine ; "  and  then  we  explored  farther.  One 
end  of  the  corridor  was  screened  by  a  large  oaken  door 


A   DESERT-LOOKING  ROOM.  289 

from  another  range  of  rooms,  and  not  without  difficulty 
we  effected  an  entrance,  for  the  key,  although  in  the 
lock,  was  rusty,  and  no  joke  to  turn.  Here,  again,  were 
doors,  right  and  left  ;  here  also  all  was  hidden  under 
lock  and  key  that  they  might  be  supposed  to  contain  ; 
but  we  did  at  last  discover  a  curious  hole  at  the  end, 
which  we  did  not  take  for  a  room  until  we  came  inside, 
—  having  opened  the  door,  which  was  latched,  and  not 
especially  convenient.  However,  before  we  advanced 
I  had  ventured,  "  Sir,  perhaps  some  one  is  in  there,  as 
it  is  not  fastened  up." 

"  I  shall  not  kill  them,  I  suppose,''  he  replied,  with  a 
curious  eagerness.  Then  with  the  old  sweetness,  "  You 
are  very  right,  I  will  knock ;  but  I  know  it  will  be 
knocking  to  nobody." 

He  had  then  touched  the  panel  with  his  delicate 
knuckles ;  no  voice  had  answered,  and  with  a  mirthful 
look  he  lifted  the  latch  and  we  both  entered.  It  was  a 
sight  that  surprised  me  ;  for  a  most  desolate  prison-cell 
could  not  have  been  darker.  The  window  ought  not  to 
be  so  named  ;  for  it  let  in  no  light  only  shade,  through 
its  lack-lustrous  green  glass.  There  was  no  furniture  at 
all,  except  a  very  narrow  bed,  —  looking  harder  than  Len- 
hart  Davy's,  but  wearing  none  of  that  air  of  his.  There 
was  a  closet,  as  I  managed  to  discover  in  a  niche,  but 
no  chest,  no  stove  ;  in  fact,  there  was  nothing  suggestive 
at  all,  except  one  solitary  picture,  and  that  hung  above 
the  bed  and  looked  dowTi  into  it,  as  it  were,  to  protect 
and  bless.  I  felt  I  know  not  how  when  I  saw  it  then 
and  there  ;  for  it  was  —  what  picture  do  you  think  ?  A 
copy  of  the  very  musical  cherub  I  had  met  with  upon 
Aronach's  ^Teath-hung  walls.  It  was  fresher,  newer,  in 
this  instance,  but  it  had  no  gold  or  carven  frame  ;  it  was 
bound  at  its  edge  with  fair  blue  ribbon  only,  beautifully 
VOL.  I.—  19 


290  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

Stitched,  and  suspended  by  it  too.  Above  the  graceful 
tie  was  twisted  one  long  branch  of  lately-gathered  linden 
blossom,  which  looked  itself  sufficient  to  give  an  air  of 
heaven  to  the  close  little  cell;  it  was  even  as  flowers 
upon  a  tomb,  —  those  sighs  and  smiles  of  immortality 
where  the  mortal  has  passed  forever ! 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  I  said,  and  I  turned  to  him,  —  for  I  knew 
his  eyes  were  attracted  thither,  —  "  oh,  sir  !  do  you  know 
whose  portrait  that  is?  For  my  master  has  it,  and  I  never 
dared  to  ask  him ;  and  the  others  do  not  know." 

"  It  is  a  picture  of  the  little  boy  who  played  truant 
and  tempted  another  little  boy  to  play  truant  too." 

And  then,  as  he  replied,  I  wondered  I  had  not 
thought  of  such  a  possibility ;  for  looking  from  one  to 
the  other,  I  could  not  now  but  trace  a  certain  definite 
resemblance  between  those  floating  baby  ringlets  and  the 
profuse  dark  curls  wherein  the  elder's  strength  almost 
seemed  to  hide,  —  so  small  and  infinitely  spiritual  was 
he  in  his  incomparable  organization. 

"  Now,  sir,  do  come  and  rest  a  little  while  before  we 

go." 

He  was  standing  abstractedly  by  that  narrow  bed,  and 
looked  as  sad,  as  troubled,  as  in  the  impending  thunder- 
cloud ;  but  he  rallied  just  as  suddenly. 

"Yes,  yes  ;  we  had  better  go,  or  she  might  come." 

I  could  not  reply,  for  this  singular  prescience 
daunted  me,  —  how  could  he  tell  it  was  her  very  room .? 
But  when  we  came  into  the  corridor,  I  beheld,  by  the 
noonday  brightness,  which  was  not  banished  thence, 
that  there  was  a  kind  of  moist  light  in  his  eyes,  not 
tears,  but  as  the  tearful  glimmer  of  some  blue  distance 
when  rain  is  falling  upon  those  hills. 

We  threaded  our  way  downstairs  again,  —  for  he 
seemed  quite  unwilling  to  explore  farther,  —  and  I  won- 


AN  INVITATIOjV.  29 1 

dered  where  he  would  lead  me  next,  when  we  met 
Milans-Andre'  in  the  hall.  The  Chevalier  blushed  even 
as  an  angry  virgin  on  beholding  him,  but  still  met  him 
cordially  as  before. 

"  Where  are  you  staying,  Chevalier?  At  the  Fiirstin 
Haus?" 

"  I  am  not  staying  here  at  all.  I  am  going  back  to 
Lorbeerstadt  to  sleep,  and  to-morrow  to  Altemveg,  and 
then  to  many  places  for  many  days." 

"  Oh  !  I  thought  you  would  have  supped  with  me, 
and  I  could  have  a  little  initiated  you.  But  if  you  are 
really  returning  to  Lorbeerstadt,  pray  use  my  carriage, 
which  is  waiting  in  the  yard." 

"You  are  only  too  amiable,  my  dear  Andre.  We 
shall  use  it  with  the  greatest  pleasure.^' 

Oh  !  how  black  did  Andre  look  when  Seraphael  laid 
that  smaU,  delicate  stress  upon  the  "  we ; "  for  I  knew 
the  invitation  intended  his  colleague,  and  included  no 
one  else.  But  the  other  evidently  took  it  all  for  granted ; 
and  again  thanking  him  with  exquisite  gayety,  ran  out 
into  the  court-yard,  and  cried  to  me  to  come  and  see 
the  carriage. 

"I  have  a  little  coach  myself,"  he  said  to  me  and 
also  to  Andre,  who  was  lounging  behind  along  with  us  ; 
"  but  it  is  a  toy  compared  with  yours,  and  I  wonder  I 
did  not  put  it  into  my  pocket,  it  is  so  small,  —  only 
large  enough  for  thee  and  me,  Carlomein." 

"  Why,  Seraphael,  you  are  dreaming.  There  are  no 
such  equipages  in  all  Vienna  as  your  father's  and 
mother's. '^ 

"  They  are  not  mine,  you  see ;  and  if  I  drove  such,  I 
should  look  like  a  sparrow  in  a  hencoop.  Oh,  Carlo- 
mein, what  quantities  of  sparrows  there  are  in  London ! 
Do  they  live  upon  the  smuts  ?  " 


292  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

At  this  instant  the  carriage,  whose  driver  Andre  had 
beckoned  to  draw  up,  approached  ;  and  then  we  both 
ran  to  fetch  Aronach,  who  came  out  very  grumbhng,  for 
the  entry  in  the  long  book  was  scarcely  dry ;  and  he 
saluted  nobody,  but  marched  after  us  like  a  person  sud- 
denly wound  up,  putting  himself  heavily  into  the  car- 
riage, which  he  did  not  notice  in  the  least.  It  was  an 
open  carriage,  Paris-built  (as  I  now  know),  and  so  lux- 
uriously lined  as  not  to  be  very  fit  for  an  expedition  in 
any  but  halcyon  weather.  As  for  Seraphael,  he  flung 
himself  upon  the  seat  as  a  cowslip  ball  upon  the  grass, 
and  scarcely  shook  the  light  springs  ;  and  as  I  followed 
him,  he  made  a  profound  bow  to  the  owner  of  the  equi- 
page, who,  disconsolately  enough,  still  stood  within  the 
porch. 

"  Now,  I  do  enjoy  this,  Carlomein  !  I  cannot  help 
loving  to  be  saucy  to  Andre,  —  good,  excellent,  and 
wonderful  as  he  is." 

I  looked  to  find  whether  he  was  in  earnest.  But  I 
could  not  tell,  for  his  eyes  were  grave,  and  the  lips  at 
rest.  But  Aronach  gave  a  growl,  though  mildly,  —  as 
the  lion  might  growl  in  the  day  when  a  little  child  shall 
lead  him. 

"  You  have  not  conquered  that  weakness  yet,  and,  I 
prophesy,  never  will." 

"  What  weakness,  master  ?  "  But  he  faltered,  even  as 
a  little  child. 

"  To  excuse  fools  and  fondle  slaves." 

"  Oh,  my  master,  do  not  scold  me  !  "  and  he  cov- 
ered his  eyes  with  his  little  blue-veined  hands.  *'  It  is 
so  sad  to  be  a  fool  or  a  slave  that  we  should  do  all  for 
such  we  can  do,  especially  if  we  are  not  so  ourselves.  I 
think  myself  right  there." 

His   pleading   tone   here    modulated    into    the  still 


A   PICTURE  I  OFTEN  RECALL.  293 

authority  I  had  noticed  once  or  twice,  and  Aronach 
gave  a  smile  in  reply,  which  was  the  motion  of  the 
raptured  look  I  had  noticed  during  the  improvisation. 

"  Thou  teachest  yet,  then,  out  of  thy  vocation.  But 
thou  art  no  more  than  thou  ever  hast  been,  —  too  much 
for  thy  old  master.  And  as  wrens  fly  faster  and  creep 
stealthier  than  owls,  so  art  thou  already  whole  heavens 
beyond  me." 

But  with  tender  scornfulness,  Seraphael  put  out  his 
hand  in  deprecation,  and  throwing  back  his  hair,  buried 
his  head  in  the  cushion  of  the  carriage  and  shut  his 
eyes.  Nor  did  he  again  open  them  until  we  entered 
our  little  town. 

I  need  scarcely  say  I  watched  him  ;  and  often,  as  in  a 
glassy  mirror,  I  see  that  face  again  upturned  to  the  light, 
—  too  beautiful  to  require  any  shadow,  or  to  seek  it,  — 
see  again  the  dazzling  day  draw  forth  its  lustrous  sym- 
metr)',  while  ever  the  soft  wind  tried  to  lift  those  deep 
locks  from  the  lucid  temples,  but  tried  in  vain ;  what  I 
am  unable  to  picture  to  myself  in  so  recalling  being  the 
ever  restless  smile  that  played  and  fainted  over  the  lips, 
while  the  closed  eyes  were  feeding  upon  the  splendors 
of  the  Secret.  I  shall  never  forget  either,  though,  how 
they  opened ;  and  he  came,  as  it  were,  to  his  childlike 
self  again  as  the  light  carriage  —  light  indeed  for  Ger- 
many —  dashed  round  the  Kell  Platz,  where  its  ponder- 
ous contemporaneous  contradictions  were  ranged,  and 
took  the  fountain  square  in  an  unwonted  sweep.  Then 
he  sat  forward  and  watched  with  the  greatest  eagerness, 
and  he  sprang  out  almost  before  we  stopped. 

"I  think  Carl  and  I  could  save  you  these  stairs, 
master  mine,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Let  us  carry  you  up 
between  us  !  " 

But  what  do  you  think  was  the  reply  ?    Seraphael  had 


294  CHARLES  AU CHESTER. 

spoken  in  his  gleeful  voice.  But  Aronach  wore  his 
gravest  frown  as  he  turned  and  pounced  suddenly  upon 
the  other,  —  whipping  him  up  in  his  arms,  and  hoisting 
him  to  his  shoulder,  then  speeding  up  the  staircase  with 
his  guest  as  if  the  weight  were  no  greater  than  a  flower 
or  a  bird  !  I  could  not  stir  some  moments  from  aston- 
ishment and  alarm,  for  I  had  instantaneous  impressions 
of  Seraphael  flying  over  the  balusters ;  but  presently, 
when  his  laugh  came  ringing  down,  —  and  I  realized  it 
to  be  the  laugh  of  one  almost  beside  himself  with  fun, 
—  I  flew  after  them,  and  found  them  on  the  dark  land- 
ing at  the  foot  of  our  own  flight.  Seraphael  was  now 
upon  his  feet,  and  I  quite  appreciated  the  delicate  policy 
of  the  old  head  here.  He  said  in  a  moment,  when  his 
breath  was   steady, — 

"  Now,  if  they  offer  to  chair  thee  again  at  the  Quartz- 
mayne  Festival,  and  thou  turnest  giddy-pate,  send  for 


me 


"  I  certainly  will,  if  they  offer  such  an  honor ;  but 
once  is  quite  enough,  and  they  will  not  do  it  again." 

*'Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  fell  into  the  river,  and  was  picked  up  by 
a  fisherman  ;  and  desiring  to  know  my  character  after  I 
was  dead,  I  made  him  cover  me  with  his  nets  and  row 
me  down  to  Carstein,  quite  three  miles.  There  I 
supped  with  him,  and  slept  too,  and  the  next  morning 
heard  that  I  was  drowned." 

"  Oh  !  one  knows  that  history,  which  found  its  way 
into  a  certain  paper  among  the  lies,  and  was  published 
in  illustration  of  the  eccentricities  of  genius." 

Aronach  said  this  very  cross,  —  I  wondered  whether 
it  was  with  the  Press,  or  his  pupil ;  but  if  it  were  with 
the  latter,  he  only  enjoyed  it  the  more. 

Then  Aronach  bade  me  conduct  his  guest  into  the 


A   SUMPTUOUS  BANQUET,  295 

organ-room,  while  he  himself  put  a  period  to  those 
howlings  of  the  immured  ones  which  yet  conscientiously 
asserted  themselves.  We  waited  a  few  moments  up- 
stairs, and  then  Aronach  carried  off  the  Chevalier  to  his 
own  room,  —  a  sacred  region  I  had  never  approached, 
and  which  I  could  only  suppose  to  exist.  I  then  rushed 
to  mine,  and  was  so  long  in  collecting  my  senses  that 
Starwood  came  to  bid  me  to  supper.  I  did  not  detain 
him  then,  though  I  had  so  much  to  say ;  but  I  observed 
that  he  had  his  Sunday  coat  on,  —  a  little  blue  frock, 
braided ;  and  I  remembered  that  I  ought  to  have  as- 
sumed my  own.  Still,  my  wardrobe  was  in  such  perfect 
order  (thanks  to  Clo)  that  my  own  week  coat  was  more 
respectable  than  many  other  boys'  Sunday  ones ;  and 
though  I  have  the  instinct  of  personal  cleanliness  very 
strong,  I  cannot  say  I  like  to  look  smart. 

When  I  reached  our  parlor,  I  was  quite  dazzled. 
There  was  a  sumptuous  banquet,  as  I  took  it,  arranged 
upon  a  cloth,  the  fineness  and  whiteness  of  which  so  far 
transcended  our  daily  style  that  I  immediately  appre- 
hended it  had  proceeded  from  the  secret  hoards  in  that 
wonderful  closet  of  Aronach's.  The  tall  glasses  were 
interspersed  with  silver  flagons,  and  the  usual  garnish- 
ings  varied  by  all  kinds  of  fruits  and  flowers,  which 
appeared  to  have  sprung  from  a  magic  touch  or  two 
of  that  novel  magic  presence.  For  the  rest,  there  were 
delicious  milk  porridge  on  our  accounts,  and  honey  and 
butter,  and  I  noticed  those  long-necked  bottles,  one  like 
which  Santonio  had  emptied,  and  which  I  had  never 
seen  upon  that  table  since ;  for  Aronach  was  very 
frugal,  and  taught  us  to  be  so.  I  was  so  from  taste 
and  by  habit,  but  Iskar  would  have  liked  to  gorge  him- 
self with  dainties,  I  used  to  think.  When  I  saw  this  last 
seated  at  the  table  I  was  highly  indignant,  for  he  had 


296  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

set  his  stool  by  Seraphael's  chair.  He  had  fished  from 
his  marine  store  of  clothes  a  crumpled  white-silk  waist- 
coat, over  which  he  had  invested  himself  with  a  tarn- 
ished silver  watch-chain.  But  I  would  not,  if  I  could, 
recall  his  audacious  manner  of  gazing  over  everything 
upon  the  table  and  everybody  in  the  room,  with  those 
legs  of  his  stretched  out  for  any  one  to  stumble  over,  or 
rather  on  purpose  to  make  me  stumble.  I  knew  this 
very  well,  and  avoided  him  by  placing  my  stool  on  the 
opposite  edge  of  the  board,  where  I  could  still  look 
into  the  eyes  I  loved  if  I  raised  my  own. 

This  insignificant  episode  will  prove  that  Iskar  had 
not  grown  in  my  good  graces,  nor  had  I  acquainted 
myself  better  with  him  than  on  the  first  night  of  my 
arrival.  I  knew  him  not,  but  I  knew  of  him,  for 
every  voice  in  the  house  was  against  him ;  and  he  gave 
promise  of  no  small  power  upon  his  instrument,  together 
with  small  promise  of  musical  or  mental  excellence,  as 
all  he  did  was  correct  to  caricature  and  inimitably  me- 
chanical. Vain  as  he  was  of  his  playing,  his  vanity  had 
small  scope  on  that  score  under  that  quiet  roof-shadow, 
so  it  spent  itself  upon  his  person,  which  was  certainly 
elegant,  if  vulgar.  I  am  not  clear  but  that  one  of  these 
personal  attractions  always  infers  the  other.  But  why  I 
mention  Iskar  is  that  I  may  be  permitted  to  recall  the 
expressions  with  which  our  master's  guest  regarded  him. 
It  was  a  grieved,  yet  curious  glance,  with  that  child-like 
scrutiny  of  what  is  not  true  all  abashing  to  the  false, 
unless  the  false  has  lost  all  child-likeness.  Iskar  must, 
I  suppose,  have  lost  it,  for  he  was  not  the  least  abashed, 
and  was  really  going  to  begin  upon  his  porridge  be- 
fore we  had  all  sat  down,  if  Aronach  had  not  awfully, 
but  serenely,  rebuked  him.  Little  Starwood,  by  my 
side,  looked  as  fair  and  as  pretty  as  ever,  rather  more 


A   DEXTEROUS  FEAT.  297 

shy  than  usual.  Seraphael,  now  seated,  looked  round 
with  that  exquisitely  sweet  politeness  I  have  never  met 
with  but  in  him,  and  asked  us  each  whether  we  would 
eat  some  honey,  for  he  had  the  honey-pot  before  him. 
I  had  some,  of  course,  for  the  pleasure  of  being  helped 
by  him,  and  he  dropped  it  into  my  milk  in  a  gold  flow- 
ing stream,  smiling  as  he  did  so.  It  was  so  we  always 
ate  honey  at  Aronach's,  and  it  is  so  I  eat  it  to  this  day. 
Little  Star  put  out  his  bowl  too.  Oh  !  those  great 
heavy  wooden  bowls  !  it  was  just  too  much  for  him, 
and  he  let  it  shp.  Aronach  was  rousing  to  thunder 
upon  him,  and  I  felt  as  if  the  ceiling  were  coming  down 
(for  I  knew  he  was  angry  on  account  of  that  guest  of 
his),  when  we  heard  that  voice  in  its  clear  authority,  — 
"  Dear  Aronach,  do  nothing  !  the  milk  is  not  spoiled." 
And  turning  all  of  us  together,  we  saw  that  he  had 
caught  the  bowl  on  his  outstretched  hands,  and  that  not 
a  drop  had  fallen.  I  mention  it  as  illustrative  of  that 
miraculous  organization  in  which  intent  and  action 
were  simultaneous,  the  motions  of  whose  will  it  seemed 
impossible  to  retard  or  anticipate.  Even  Iskar  looked 
astonished  at  this  feat ;  but  he  had  not  long  to  wonder, 
for  Aronach  sternly  commended  us  to  great  haste  in  the 
disposal  of  our  supper. 

I  needed  not  urging,  for  it  was  natural  to  feel  that  the 
master  and  his  master  must  wish  to  be  alone,  —  indeed, 
I  should  have  been  thankful  to  escape  eating,  though  I 
was  very  hungry,  that  I  might  not  be  in  the  way ;  but 
directly  I  took  pains  to  do  away  with  what  I  had  before 
me,  I  was  forbidden  by  Aronach  to  "  bolt." 

I  lay  awake  many  hours  in  a  vague  excitement  of 
imaginary  organ  sounds  welling  up  to  heaven  from 
heaven's  under-springs.  I  languished  in  a  romantic 
vision  of  that  face,  surrounded  with  cloud-angels,  itself 


298  CHARLES  AUCHESTER, 

their  out-shining  light.  I  waited  to  hear  his  footsteps 
upon  the  stairs  when  he  should  at  length  depart ;  but  so 
soft  was  that  departing  motion  that  even  I,  listening  with 
my  whole  existence,  heard  it  not,  nor  heard  anything  to 
remind  my  heart-silence  that  he  had  come  and  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

I  THINK  I  can  relate  nothing  else  of  that  softest 
month  of  summer,  nor  of  sultry  June.  It  was  not 
until  the  last  week  I  was  to  change  my  quarters ;  but 
long  as  it  seemed  in  coming,  it  came  when  I  was  hardly 
prepared  for  the  transfer.  Aronach  returned  to  his 
stricter  self  again  after  that  supper,  but  I  felt  certain 
he  had  heard  a  great  deal  after  we  had  left  the  table,  as 
an  expression  of  softer  character  forsook  not  his  eyes 
and  smile  for  many  days.  I  could  not  discover  whether 
anything  had  passed  concerning  Starwood,  who  re- 
mained my  chief  anxiety,  as  I  felt  if  I  left  him  there 
alone,  he  would  not  get  on  at  all.  Iskar  and  I  pre- 
served our  mutual  distance,  though  I  would  fain  have 
been  more  often  with  him,  for  I  wanted  to  make  him 
out.  He  practised  harder  than  ever,  and  hardly  took 
time  to  eat  and  drink,  and  only  on  Sundays  a  great 
while  to  dress.  He  was  always  very  jauntily  put  to- 
gether when  we  set  out  to  church,  and  looked  like  a 
French  manikin.  But  for  his  upper  lip  and  the  shallow 
width  of  his  forehead,  I  thought  him  very  handsome, 
while,  yet  so  young,  he  was  so ;  but  his  charm  consisted 
for  me  in  his  being  unapproachable,  and  as  I  thought, 
mysterious. 

We  saw  about  as  little  of  each  other  as  it  was  possible 
to  see,  living  in  the  same  house  and  dining  in  the  same 
room ;  but  we  never  talked  at  meals,  we  had  no  time. 


300  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

It  is  but  fair  to  allow  myself  an  allusion  to  my  violin, 
as  it  was  becoming  a  very  essential  feature  in  my  history. 
With  eight  hours'  practice  a  day  I  had  made  some  solid 
progress ;  but  it  did  not  convict  me  of  itself  yet,  as  I 
was  not  allowed  to  play,  only  to  acquaint  myself  with 
the  anatomy  of  special  compositions,  as  exercises  in 
theory.  Iskar  played  so  easily,  and  gave  such  an  air  of 
playing  to  practice,  that  it  never  occurred  to  me  I  was 
getting  on,  though  it  was  so,  as  I  found  in  time.  At  this 
era  I  hated  the  violin,  just  as  pianoforte  students  hate 
the  pianoforte  during  the  period  of  apprenticeship  to 
mechanism.  I  hated  the  sound  that  saluted  me  morn- 
ing, noon,  and  night ;  I  shrank  from  it  ever  unaccus- 
tomed, for  the  penetralia  of  my  brain  could  never  be 
rendered  less  susceptible  by  piercing  and  searching  its 
recesses.  I  believe  my  musical  perception  was  as  sensi- 
tive as  ever,  all  through  this  epidemic  dislike,  but  I  felt 
myself  personally  very  musically  indisposed.  I  could 
completely  dissociate  my  ideal  impression  of  that  I 
loved  from  my  absolute  experience  of  what  I  served. 
I  was  patient,  because  waiting ;  content,  because  faith- 
ful; and  I  pleased  myself  albeit  with  reflecting  that 
my  violin  —  my  own  property,  my  very  own  —  had  a 
very  different  soul  from  that  thing  I  handled  and  tor- 
tured every  day,  from  which  the  soul  had  long  since 
fled.  For  all  the  creators  of  musical  forms  have  not 
power  to  place  in  them  the  soul  that  lives  for  ages,  and 
a  little  wear  and  tear  separates  the  soul  from  the  body. 
As  for  my  Amati,  I  knew  its  race  so  pure  that  I  feared 
for  it  no  premature  decay.  In  its  dark  box  I  hoped  it 
was  at  least  not  unhappy,  but  I  dearly  longed  for  a  sight 
of  it,  and  had  I  dared,  I  would  have  crept  into  the 
closet,  but  that  whenever  it  was  unlocked  I  was  locked 
up.     The  days  flew,  though  they  seemed  to  me  so  long, 


A    TETE-A-TETE.  3OI 

as  ever  in  summer ;  and  I  felt  how  ravishing  must  the 
summer  be  without  the  town.  I  wearied  after  it ;  and 
although  the  features  of  German  scenery  are  quite  with- 
out a  certain  bloom  I  have  only  found  in  England,  they 
have  some  mystic  beauty  of  their  own  unspeakably 
more  touching ;  and  as  I  lived  then,  all  life  was  a  fairy- 
tale book,  with  half  the  leaves  uncut.  I  was  ever 
dreaming,  but  healthfully,  —  the  dreams  forgotten  as 
soon  as  dreamed ;  so  it  chanced  that  I  can  tell  you 
nothing  of  all  I  learned  or  felt,  except  what  was  tangi- 
bly and  wakingly  presented  to  myself.  I  remember, 
however,  more  than  distinctly  all  that  happened  the 
last  evening  I  passed  in  that  secluded  house,  to  my  so- 
journ in  which  I  owe  all  the  benisons  bestowed  upon 
my  after  artist  life.  We  had  supped  at  our  usual  hour, 
but  when  I  arose  and  advanced  to  salute  Aronach  as 
usual,  and  sighed  to  see  how  bright  the  sun  was  still 
upon  everything  without  and  within,  he  whispered  in  my 
ear,  —  an  attention  he  had  never  before  paid  me,  — 
*'  Stay  up  by  me  until  the  other  two  are  off;  for  I  wish 
to  speak  to  thee  and  to  give  thee  some  advice." 

Iskar  saw  him  whisper,  and  looked  very  black  because 
he  could  not  hear;  but  Aronach  waved  him  out,  and 
bade  me  shut  the  door  upon  him  and  Starwood.  I 
trembled  then,  for  I  was  not  used  to  be  along  with  him 
tete-a-tete ;  we  usually  had  a  third  party  present  in  the 
company  of  Marpurg  or  Albrechtsberger.^  He  went  into 
the  closet  first,  and  rummaged  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
returning,  appeared  laden  with  a  bottle  of  wine  and  my 
long  hid  fiddle-case.  Oh,  how  I  flew  to  relieve  him  of 
it !  But  he  bade  me  again  sit  down,  while  he  went  back 
into  the  closet    and  rummaged  again ;  this  time  for  a 

1  Famous  theorists  and  contrapuntists  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury ;   the  latter  was  the  teacher  of  Beethoven. 


302  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

couple  of  glasses  and  two  or  three  curious  jars,  rich 
china,  and  of  a  beautiful  form.  He  uncorked  the  bottle 
and  poured  me,  as  I  expected,  a  glass  of  wine. 

It  was  not  the  wine  that  agitated  me,  but  the  rarity  of 
the  attention,  so  much  so  that  I  choked  instead  of  wish- 
ing him  his  health,  as  I  ought  to  have  done.  But  he 
was  quite  unmoved  at  my  excitation,  and  leaned  back 
to  pour  glass  after  glass  down  his  own  throat.  I  was  so 
unused  to  wine  that  the  sip  I  took  exhilarated  me, 
though  it  was  the  slightest  wine  one  can  imbibe  for  such 
purpose.  And  then  he  uncovered  the  odd  gay  jars,  and 
helped  me  profusely  to  the  exquisite  preserves  they  con- 
tained. They  were  so  luscious  and  delicate  that  they 
reminded  me  of  Eden  fruits ;  and  almost  before  my 
wonder  had  shaped  itself  into  form,  certainly  before  it 
could  have  betrayed  itself  in  my  countenance,  Aronach 
began  to  speak,  — 

*'  They  pique  thee,  no  doubt,  and  not  only  thy  palate, 
for  thou  wast  ever  curious.  They  come  from  him  of 
whom  thou  hast  never  spoken  since  thy  holiday." 

"  Everything  comes  from  him,  I  think,  sir." 

"  No,  only  the  good,  not  the  evil  nor  the  negative ; 
and  it  is  on  this  point  I  would  advise  thee,  for  thou  art 
as  inconsiderate  as  a  fledgling  turned  out  of  the  nest, 
and  art  ware  of  nothing." 

"  Pray  advise  me,  sir,"  I  said,  "  and  I  shall  be  glad 
that  I  am  inconsiderate,  to  be  advised  by  you." 

I  looked  at  him,  and  was  surprised  that  a  deep 
seriousness  overshadowed  the  constant  gravity,  —  which 
was  as  if  one  entered  from  the  twilight  a  still  more 
sombre  wood. 

"  I  intend  to  advise  thee  because  thou  art  ignorant, 
though  pure  ;  untaught,  yet  not  weak.  I  would  not  ad- 
vise thy  compeers,  —  one  is  too  young,  the  other  too 
old." 


A   PAPER.  303 

"  Iskar  too  old  ! "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Iskar  was  never  a  child ;  whatever  thou  couldst 
teach  him  would  only  ripen  his  follies,  already  too 
forward.     He  belongs  to  the  other  world." 

'*  There  are  two  worlds  then  in  music,"  I  thought ;  for 
it  had  been  ever  a  favorite  notion  of  my  own,  but  I  did 
not  say  so,  I  was  watching  him.  He  took  from  the 
breast  pocket  of  his  coat  —  that  long  brown  coat  —  a 
little  leather  book,  rolled  up  like  a  parchment ;  this  he 
opened,  and  unfolded  a  paper  that  had  lain  in  the 
curves,  and  yet  curled  round  unsubmissive  to  his  fingers. 
He  deliberately  bent  it  back,  and  held  it  a  moment  or 
two,  while  his  eyes  gathered  light  in  their  fixed  gaze 
upon  what  he  clasped,  then  smoothed  it  to  its  old  shape 
with  his  palm,  and  putting  on  his  horn-set  eye-glasses, 
which  lent  him  an  owl-like  reverendness,  he  began  to 
read  to  me.  And  as  I  have  that  little  paper  still,  and 
as,  if  not  sweet,  it  is  very  short,  I  shall  transcribe  it  here 
and  now :  — 

*'  When  thou  hearest  the  folks  prate  about  art,  be  cer- 
tain thou  art  never  tempted  to  make  friends  there ;  for 
if  they  be  wise  in  any  other  respect,  they  are  fools  in 
this,  that  they  know  not  when  to  keep  silence  and  how. 
For  art  consists  not  in  any  of  its  representatives,  and 
is  of  itself  alone.  To  interpret  it  aright  we  must  let  it 
make  its  own  way,  and  those  who  talk  about  it  gainsay 
its  true  impressions,  which  alone  remain  in  the  bosom 
that  is  single  and  serene.  If  thou  markest  well,  thou 
wilt  find  how  few  of  those  who  make  a  subsistence 
out  of  music  realize  its  full  significance ;  for  they  are 
too  busy  to  recall  that  they  live  for  it,  and  not  by  it, 
even  though  it  brings  them  bread.  And  just  as  few  are 
those  who  set  apart  their  musical  life  from  all  ambition, 
even  honorable,  —  for  ambition  is  of  this  earth  alone,  and 


304  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

in  a  higher  yearning  doth  musical  life  consist ;  so  the 
irreligious  many  are  incapable  of  the  fervor  of  the  few. 
And  the  few,  those  I  did  exclude,  —  the  few  who  pos- 
sess in  patience  this  inexhaustible  desire,  —  are  those 
who  compose  my  world."      .    ^ 

"You  mean,  sir,"  I  exclaimed,  so  warm,  so  glowing 
at  my  heart,  that  the  summer  without,  brooding  over  the 
blossomed  lindens,  was  as  winter  to  the  summer  in  my 
veins,  so  suddenly  penetrated  I  felt,  —  "you  mean,  sir, 
that  as  good  people  I  have  heard  speak  of  the  world, 
and  of  good  people  who  are  not  worldly,  apart,  and  seem 
to  know  them  from  each  other,  —  in  religion  I  mean, 
—  so  it  is  in  music.  I  am  sure  my  sister  thought  so,  — 
my  sister  in  England ;   but  she  never  dared  to  say  so." 

"  No,  of  course  not ;  there  is  no  right  to  say  so  any- 
where now,  except  in  Germany,  for  here  alone  has  music 
its  priesthood,  and  here  alone,  though  little  enough  here, 
is  reverentially  regarded  as  the  highest  form  of  life,  sub- 
serving to  the  purposes  of  the  soul.  But  thou  art  right 
to  believe  entirely  so,  that,  young  as  thou  art,  thou 
mayest  keep  thy  purity,  and  mighty  may  be  thy  aptness 
to  discern  what  is  new  to  thee  in  the  old,  no  less  than 
what  answers  to  the  old  in  the  new. 

"  And,  first,  when  thou  goest  out  of  leading-strings, 
never  accustom  thyself  to  look  for  faults  or  feelings  dif- 
fering from  thine  own  in  those  set  over  thee.  It  is 
certain  that  many  a  student  of  art  has  lost  ground  in  this 
indulgence  ;  for  oftentimes  the  student,  either  from  nat- 
ural imagination,  or  from  the  vernal  innocence  of  youth, 
will  be  outstripping  his  instructors  in  his  grand  inten- 
tions, and  giving  himself  up  to  them  will  be  losing  the 
present  hours  in  the  air  that  should  be  informing  them- 
selves, with  steady  progress,  in  the  strictest  mechanical 
course.     Never  till  thou  hast  mastered  every  conceiva- 


ARONACH'S  COU.YSEL. 


305 


ble    difficulty,   dream    of   producing   the  most  distant 
musical  effect. 

'*  But,  secondly,  lest  thine  enthusiasm  should  perish 
of  starvation  under  this  mechanical  pressure,  keep  thy 
wits  awake  to  contemplate  every  artist  and  token  of 
art  that  come  between  thee  and  daylight.  And  the 
more  thou  busiest  thyself  in  mechanical  preparation, 
the  more  leisure  thou  shalt  discover  so  to  observe ; 
the  more  serene  and  brilliant  shall  thy  imagination  find 
itself,  —  a  clear  sky  filled  with  the  sunshine  of  that  en- 
thusiasm which  spreads  itself  ov^er  ever)^  object  in  earth 
and  heaven. 

"  Again,  of  music,  or  the  tone-art,  as  thou  hast  heard 
me  name  it,  never  let  thy  conception  cease.  Never 
beheve  thou  hast  adopted  the  trammels  of  a  pursuit 
bounded  by  progress  because  thine  own  progress 
bounds  thine  own  pursuit.  In  despair  at  thy  slow  in- 
duction, —  be  it  slow  as  it  must  be  gradual,  —  doubt 
not  that  it  is  into  a  divine  and  immeasurable  realm  thou 
shalt  at  length  be  admitted ;  and  if  the  ethereal  souls  of 
the  masters  gone  before  thee  have  thirsted  after  the  in- 
finite, even  in  such  immeasurable  space,  recall  thyself, 
and  bow  contented  that  thou  hast  this  in  common  with 
those  above  thee,  —  the  insatiable  presentment  of  futu- 
rity with  which  the  Creator  has  chosen  to  endow  the 
choicest  of  his  gifts,  —  the  gift  in  its  perfection  granted 
ever  to  the  choicest,  the  rarest  of  the  race." 

"  And  that  is  why  it  is  granted  to  the  Hebrew  nation, 
—  why  they  all  possess  it  like  a  right  !  "  I  cried,  almost 
without  consciousness  of  having  spoken.  But  Aronach 
answered  not ;  he  only  slightly,  with  the  least  motion, 
leaned  his  head  so  that  the  silver  of  his  beard  trembled, 
and  a  sort  of  tremor  agitated  his  brow,  that  I  observed 
not  in  his  voice  as  he  resumed. 
VOL.  I.  —  20 


3o6  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  Thou  art  young,  and  mayest  possibly  excel  early,  as 
a  mechanical  performer.  I  need  not  urge  thee  to  prune 
the  exuberance  of  thy  fancy  and  to  bind  thy  taste  — 
by  nature  delicate  —  to  the  pure,  strong  models  whose 
names  are,  at  present,  to  thee  their  only  revelation. 
For  the  scapegrace  who  figures  in  thy  daily  calendar  as 
so  magnificently  thy  superior,  will  ever  stand  thee  in- 
stead of  a  warning  or  ominous  repulsion,  so  long  as  thy 
style  is  forming ;  and  when  formed,  that  style  itself 
shall  fence  thee  alike  with  natural  and  artful  antipathy 
against  the  school  he  serves,  that  confesses  to  no  restric- 
tion, no,  not  the  restraint  of  rule,  and  is  the  servant  of 
its  own  caprice. 

"  Thou  shalt  find  that  many  who  profess  the  art,  con- 
fess not  to  that  which  they  yet  endure,  —  a  sort  of 
shame  in  their  profession,  as  if  they  should  ennoble  //, 
and  not  it  t/iem.  Such  professors  thou  shalt  ever  dis- 
cover are  slaves,  not  sons ;  their  excellence  as  per- 
formers owing  to  the  accidental  culture  of  their 
imitative  instinct ;  and  they  are  the  ripieni  of  the  uni- 
versal orchestra,  whose  chief  doth  appear  but  once  in 
every  age. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  set  on  to  study  by  thine  instructors, 
and,  as  I  before  hinted,  wilt  ever  repose  upon  their  di- 
rection. But  in  applying  to  the  works  they  select  for 
thine  edification,  whether  theoretic  or  practical,  en- 
deavor to  disabuse  thyself  of  all  thy  previous  impres- 
sions and  prepossessions  of  any  author  whatsoever,  and 
to  absorb  thyself  in  the  contemplation  of  that  alone 
thou  busiest  thyself  upon. 

"  Thus  alone  shall  thine  intelligence  explore  all  styles, 
and  so  separate  each  from  each  as  finally  to  draw  the 
exact  conclusion  from  thine  own  temperament  and 
taste  of  that  to  which  thou  dost  essentially  incline. 


ARONACH'S   COUXSEL.  ^OJ 

*'  In  treating  of  music  specifically,  remember  not  to 
confound  its  elements.  As  in  ancient  mythology  many 
religious  seeds  were  sown,  and  golden  symbols  scattered, 
so  may  we  apply  its  enforcing  fables  where  the  new  wis- 
dom denies  us  utterance,  and  the  nearer  towards  the 
expression  of  the  actual  than  if  we  observed  the  literal 
forms  of  speech.  Thus  ever  remembering  that  as  the 
'  aorasia '  was  a  word  signifying  the  invisibility  of  the 
gods,  and  the  '  avatar  '  their  incarnation,  so  is  time  the 
aorasia  of  music  the  god-like,  and  tone  its  avatar. 

"  Then,  in  time,  shalt  thou  realize  that  in  which  the 
existence  of  music  as  infallibly  consists  as  in  its  mani- 
festation, tone,  and  thine  understanding  shall  become 
invested  with  the  true  nature  of  rhythm,  which  alike 
doth  exist  between  time  and  tone,  seeming  to  con- 
nect in  spiritual  dependence  the  one  with  the  other 
inseparably. 

"  In  devoting  thine  energies  to  the  works  of  art  in 
ages  behind  thine  own,  thou  shalt  never  be  hable  to  de- 
press thy  consciousness  of  those  which  are  meritorious 
with  thee,  and  yet  to  come  before  thee.  For  thou  wilt 
learn  that  to  follow  the  supreme  of  art  with  innocence 
and  wisdom  was  ever  allotted  to  the  few  whose  labors 
yet  endure  ;  while  as  to  the  many  whose  high-flown  per- 
fections in  their  day  seduced  the  admiration  of  the 
m}Tiads  to  the  neglect  of  the  few.  except  by  few.  find 
we  nothing  of  them  at  present,  but  the  names  alone  of 
their  operas,  or  the  mention  of  their  having  been,  and 
being  now  no  more.  And  this  is  while  the  few  are 
growing  and  expanding  their  fame,  as  the  generations 
succeed,  ever  among  the  few  of  every  generation,  but 
yet  betokening  in  that  still,  secluded  renown,  the  im- 
mortal purpose  for  which  they  wrote  and  died  not. 

"  Be  assured  that  in  all  works  that  have  endured  there 


308  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

is  something  of  the  nature  of  truth  ;  therefore  acquaint 
thyself  with  all,  ever  reserving  the  right  to  honor  with 
peculiar  investigation  those  works  in  which  the  author 
by  scientific  hold  upon  forceful  imagination  intimates 
that  he  wrote  with  the  direct  intention  to  illustrate  his 
art,  not  alone  for  the  love  of  it,  but  in  the  fear  of  its 
service.  Thus  apply  thyself  to  the  compositions  of 
Palestrina,  of  Purcell,  of  Alessandro  Scarlatti,  and  the 
indefatigable  CorelH ;  thus  lend  thyself  to  the  master- 
pieces of  Pergolesi,  of  Mozart,  and  Handel ;  thus  lean 
with  thine  entire  soul  upon  the  might  and  majesty  of 
John  Sebastian  Bach.  All  others  in  order,  but  these  in 
chief;  and  this  last  generalissimo,  until  thou  hast  learnt 
to  govern  thyself." 

He  paused  and  stayed,  and  the  summer  evening-gold 
crowned  him  as  he  sat.  That  same  rich  gleam  creeping 
in,  for  all  the  deep  shade  that  filled  the  heavenly  vault, 
seemed  to  touch  me  with  solemn  ecstasy  alike  with  his 
words.  He  was  folding  up  that  paper,  and  had  nearly 
settled  it  before  I  dared  to  thank  him  ;  but  as  he  held  it 
out,  and  I  grasped  it,  I  also  kissed  the  ivory  of  his  not 
unwrinkled  hand,  and  he  did  not  withdraw  it.  Then  I 
said,  "  My  dear  master,  my  dear,  dear  Herr  Aronach,  is 
that  for  me  to  keep?  " 

"It  is  for  thee,"  he  answered;  "and  perhaps,  as 
there  is  little  of  it,  thou  wilt  digest  it  more  conveniently 
than  a  more  abundant  lecture.  Thou  art  imaginative, 
or  I  should  not  set  thee  laws,  and  implicit,  or  thou 
wouldst  not  follow  them." 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  sir,  whether  those  are  the 
sort  of  rules  you  gave  the  Chevalier  Seraphael  when 
he  was  a  little  boy  ?  " 

"  No,  no ;  they  are  not  such  as  I  gave  him,  be 
certain." 


ARONACH'S  STORY.  309 

"  I  thought  not,  perhaps.  Oh,  sir,  how  very  sur- 
prising he  must  have  been  when  he  was  so  young  and 
little  !  " 

"  He  did  not  rudely  declaim,  thou  mayest  imagine, 
at  eight  years  old,  and  his  voice  was  so  modest  to 
strangers  that  it  was  hard  to  make  him  heard  at  all,  — 
this  it  was  that  made  me  set  no  laws  before  him." 

''  How  then,  sir,  did  you  teach  him?  "  was  my  bolder 
question. 

"  He  would  discourse  of  music  in  its  native  tongue, 
when  his  small  fingers  conversed  with  the  keys  of  his 
favorite  harpsichord,  so  wondrously  at  home  there,  from 
the  first  time  they  felt  themselves.  And  in  still  obedi- 
ence to  the  law  of  that  inborn  harmony  that  governed 
his  soul,  he  would  bend  his  curly  pate  over  the  score 
till  all  the  color  fell  off  his  round  cheek ;  and  his  fore- 
head would  work  and  frown  with  thoughts  strong  enough 
to  make  a  strong  man's  brain  quiver.  I  was  severe  with 
him  to  save  my  conscience ;  but  he  ever  outwitted  me, 
nor  could  I  give  him  enough  to  do,  for  he  made  play 
of  work,  and  no  light  work  of  play.  It  was  as  if  I 
should  direct  the  south  wind  to  blow  in  summer,  or  the 
sunbeams  to  make  haste  with  the  fruit.  At  length  it 
came  to  such  a  pass  —  his  calm  attainment  —  that  I  gave 
him  up  to  die  !  He  left  off  growing  too,  and  there  was 
of  him  so  little  that  you  would  have  thought  him  one  the 
pleasant  folk  had  changed  at  birth  :  bright  enough  were 
his  eyes  for  such  suspicion.  So  I  clapped  upon  him 
one  day  as  he  was  lying  upon  a  bit  of  shade  in  my  gar- 
den, his  cap  of  velvet  tumbled  off,  and  the  feather  flying 
as  you  please,  while  over  the  score  of  Graun  he  had 
fallen  fast  asleep.  When  I  came  to  him,  I  thought  the 
little  heart-strings  had  given  way,  to  let  him  free  alto- 
gether, he  lay  so  still  and   heavy  in    his  slumber,   and 


310  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

no  breath  came  through  his  Hps  that  I  could  see.  So  I 
took  him  up,  never  waking  him,  and  laid  him  away  in 
bed,  and  locked  up  every  staved  sheet  that  lay  about, 
and  every  score  and  note-book,  and  shut  the  harpsi- 
chord ;  and  when  at  last  he  awoke,  I  took  him  upon 
my  knee,  — for  it  was  then  he  came  to  my  house  for  his 
lessons,  and  I  could  do  with  him  as  I  pleased.  *  Now,' 
said  I,  '  thou  hast  been  asleep  over  thy  books,  and  I 
have  carried  them  all  away,  for  thou  art  lazy,  and  shalt 
see  them  never  again,  unless  thou  art  content  to  do  as  I 
shall  bid  thee.' 

"  Then  he  looked  into  my  face  with  his  kind  child's 
eyes,  and  said,  — 

" '  I  wish  that  thou  wert  my  pupil,  master ;  for  if  so, 
I  should  show  thee  how  I  should  like  to  be  taught.' 

" '  Well,  thou  art  now  very  comfortable  on  my  knee, 
and  mayest  pull  my  watch-chain  if  thou  wilt,  and  shalt 
also  tell  me  the  story  of  what  thou  shouldst  teach  thine 
old,  grand  pupil,  —  we  will  make  a  play  of  it.' 

"  '  I  do  not  care  to  pull  thy  chain  now,  but  I  should 
like  to  watch  thy  face  while  I  tell  thee.' 

"  So  then.  Master  Carl,  this  elf  stood  upright  on  my 
knees,  and  spread  out  his  arms,  and  laughed  loud  till 
the  wet  pearls  shone  ;  and  while  I  held  his  feet  —  for  I 
thought  he  would  fly  away  —  says  he  to  mock  me,  — 

"  *  Now,  Master  Aronach,  thou  mayest  go  home  and 
play  with  thy  little  sister  at  kings  and  queens,  and  never 
do  any  more  lessons  till  thou  art  twelve  years  old ;  for 
that  is  the  time  to  be  a  man  and  do  great  things  :  and 
now  thou  art  a  poor  baby,  who  cannot  do  anything  but 
play  and  go  to  sleep.  And  all  the  big  books  are  put 
away,  and  nobody  is  to  bring  them  out  again  until 
thou  art  big  and  canst  keep  awake.' 

"Then  I  looked  at  him  hard,  to  see  whether  he  was 


ARONACH'S  STORY.  311 

Still  mocking  me  ;  but  when  I  found  he  looked  rather 
about  to  cry,  I  set  him  down,  and  took  my  hat,  and 
walked  out  of  my  house  to  the  lower  ramparts.  On  the 
lower  ramparts  stood  the  fine  house  of  his  father,  and  1 
rang  the  bell  quite  free,  and  went  boldly  up  the  stairs. 
His  mother  was  alone  in  her  grand  drawing-room,  and 
I  said  that  she  might  either  come  and  fetch  him  away 
altogether,  or  let  him  stay  with  me  and  amuse  himself 
as  he  cared  for ;  that  I  would  not  teach  him  for  those 
years  to  come,  as  he  had  said.  The  stately  lady  was 
offended,  and  carried  him  off  from  me  altogether ;  and 
when  he  went  he  was  very  proud,  and  would  not  shed 
one  tear,  though  he  clung  round  my  collar  and  whis- 
pered, elf  that  he  was,  —  '  I  shall  come  back  when  I 
am  twelve.     Hush  !  master,  hush  ! '  " 

"And  did  he  come  back?"  I  cried,  no  less  in  ecstasy 
at  the  story  than  at  the  confidence  reposed  in  me. 

"All  in  good  time  —  peace,"  said  Aronach.  "I 
never  saw  him  again  until  the  twenty-second  morning  of 
May,  in  the  fourth  year  after  his  mother  carried  him  off. 
I  heard  of  the  wonder-boy  from  every  mouth,  —  how  he 
was  taken  here,  and  flourished  there,  to  show  off;  and 
petted  and  praised  by  the  king ;  and  I  thought  often 
how  piteous  was  it  thus  to  spoil  him.  On  that  very 
morning  I  was  up  betimes,  and  was  writing  a  letter  to 
an  old  friend  of  mine  whose  daughter  was  dead,  when 
I  heard  feet  Hke  a  fawn  that  was  finding  quick  way  up 
my  dark  stairs,  and  I  stopped  to  listen.  The  door  was 
burst  open  all  in  a  moment,  as  if  by  the  wind,  and  there 
he  stood,  in  his  little  hat  and  feather  and  his  gay  new 
dress,  bright  as  a  birthday  prince,  with  a  huge  lumber- 
ing flower-pot  in  his  two  little  arms.  He  set  that  upon 
the  floor  and  danced  up  to  me  directly,  climbing  upon 
my  knees.     '  Will  you  take  me  back  ?    For  I  am  twelve, 


312  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

and  nobody  else  can  teach  me  !  I  know  all  they 
know.' 

"  He  folded  his  little  arms  together  round  my  collar, 
and  held  on  there  tight.  What  a  minimus  he  was  ! 
scarcely  a  half- foot  taller  ;  but  with  such  a  noble  air, 
and  those  same  kind  eyes  of  old.  I  pinched  his  fair 
cheek,  which  was  red  as  any  rose ;  but  it  was  only  a 
blossom  born  of  the  morning  air  :  as  he  still  sat  upon  my 
knees,  the  beauteous  color  fell,  faded  quite  away,  and  left 
him  pale,  —  pale  as  you  now  see  him,  Master  Carl." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  tell  me  a  little,  httle  more.  What  did  he 
teUyou?     What  did  he  do?" 

"  He  told  me,  with  the  pale  face  pressed  against  my 
coat,  *  Thou  seest,  sweet  master,  I  would  not  take  pains 
just  at  first,  and  mamma  was  very  grand ;  she  never 
blessed  me  for  a  week,  and  I  never  kissed  her.  I  did 
lessons  with  her,  though,  and  tried  to  plague  her,  and 
played  very  sad,  very  ill,  and  would  hardly  read  a  bar. 
So  mamma  took  it  into  her  head  to  say  that  you  had  not 
taught  me  properly ;  and  I  grew  very  wild,  angry,  —  so 
hurt  at  least  that  I  burst  out,  and  ran  downstairs,  and 
came  no  more  for  lessons  five  whole  days.  Then  I 
begged  her  pardon,  and  she  sent  for  Herr  Hummel  to 
teach  me.  I  played  my  very  best  to  Herr  Hiimmel, 
master  mine  ! ' 

"'I  daresay  he  did,'  thought  I,  'the  naughty  one! 
the  elf ! '  There  he  lay  back  with  his  pale  face,  and  all 
the  mischief  in  his  starry  eyes. 

*' '  And  Herr  Hiimmel,'  my  loveling  went  on,  pursing 
his  hps,  '  said  he  could  not  teach  me  to  play,  but  per- 
haps he  could  teach  me  to  write.  So  I  wrote  for  him 
ever  so  many  pages,  and  he  could  not  read  them,  for  I 
wrote  so  small,  so  small ;  and  Herr  Hummel  has  such 
very  weak  eyes  ! ' 


ARONACH'S  STORY.  313 

"  Oh  !   how   naughty   he   looked,   lying    across    my 


Knees 


"  '  And  then,'  he  prattled,  '  mamma  set  herself  to  look 
for  somebody  very  new  and  great ;  and  she  picked  up 
Monsieur  Milans- Andre,  who  is  a  very  young  master, 
only  nineteen  years  old ;  and  mamma  says  he  is  a  great 
genius.  Now,  as  for  me,  dear  master,  I  don't  know 
what  a  great  genius  is ;  but  if  Monsieur  Andrd  be  one, 
thou  art  not  one,  nor  I.' 

"  Oh,  the  haughty  one  !  still  pratthng  on,  — 

"  '  I  did  take  pains,  and  put  myself  back,  that  he 
might  show  me  over  again  what  you,  dear  master,  had 
taught  me,  so  that  I  never  forget,  and  could  not  forget, 
if  I  tried  ;  and  in  a  year  I  told  mamma  I  would  never 
touch  the  harpsichord  again  if  she  did  not  promise  I 
should  come  back  to  you  again.  She  said  she  could  n't 
promise,  and,  master,  I  never  did  again  touch  the  harp- 
sichord, but  instead,  I  learned  what  was  better,  to  play 
on  Monsieur  Andre''s  grand  pianoforte  ! ' 

" '  And  how  didst  thou  admire  that,  eh  ? '  I  asked, 
rather  curious  about  the  matter. 

"  '  Oh  !  it  is  very  comfortable ;  I  feel  quite  clear 
about  it,  and  have  written  for  it  some  things.  But 
Monsieur  Andre  is  to  go  a  tour,  so  he  told  mamma 
yesterday,  and  this  morning  before  he  came  I  ran 
away,  and  I  am  returned  to  you,  and  have  brought  my 
tree  to  keep  my  birthday  with  you.  And,  master  mine, 
I  won*t  go  back  again  ! ' 

"  Before  I  could  answer  him,  as  I  expected,  comes  a 
pull  at  the  bell  to  draw  the  house  down,  and  up  the 
stairs  creaks  Rathsherr  Seraphael,  the  father,  a  mighty 
good  looking  and  very  grand  man.  He  takes  a  seat, 
and  looks  queer  and  awful.  But  the  little  one,  quitting 
me,  dances  round  and  round  his  chair  and  kisses  away 
that  frown. 


314  CHARLES  AUCHESTER. 

"  '  Dear  and  beautiful  papa,  thou  must  give  me  leave 
to  stay  I  am  thine  only  son  ! ' 

"  *  Thou  art  indeed,  and  hast  never  before  disobeyed 
me.     Why  didst  thou  run  away,  my  Adonais  ? ' 

" '  Papa,  he  can  only  teach  me  ;  I  will  not  leave  him, 
for  I  must  obey  music  before  you,  and  in  him  music 
calls  me.' 

"  He  ran  back  to  my  knee,  and  there  his  father  left 
him  (but  very  disconcerted),  and  I  don't  know  how 
they  setded  it  at  home.  But  enough  for  me,  there  was 
never  any  more  difficulty,  and  he  and  I  kept  his  birth- 
day together  ;  the  little  candles  burned  out  among  the 
linden-flowers,  and  beautful  presents  came  for  him  and 
for  me  from  the  great  house  on  the  ramparts. 

"  And  he  never  left  me,"  added  Aronach,  with  a 
prodigious  pleasure  too  big  to  conceal  either  by  word 
or  look,  "he  never  left  me  until  he  set  ofl"  for  his 
travels  all  over  Europe,  during  which  travels  I  removed, 
and  came  up  here  a  long  distance  from  the  old  place, 
where  I  had  him  all  to  myself,  and  he  was  all  to  me." 

"  Thanks,  dear  master,  if  I  too  may  so  call  you.  I 
shall  always  feel  that  you  are ;  but  I  did  not  know  how 
very  much  you  had  to  do  with  him." 

"Thou  mayest  so  name  me,  because  thou  art  not 
wanting  in  veneration,  and  canst  also  be    mastered.'' 

"Thanks  forever.  And  I  may  keep  this  precious 
paper  ?  In  your  own  writing,  sir,  it  will  be  more  than  if 
you  had  said  it,  you  know,  though  I  should  have  re- 
membered every  word.  And  the  story,  too,  is  just  as 
safe  as  if  you  had  written  it  for  me." 

And  so  it  was. 

END    OF   VOL.   I. 


THE  LAUREL-CROWNED  LETTERS. 


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LAUREL-CROWNED  TALES. 

Abdallah;  or,  The  Four-Leaved  Shamrock.    By  Ed- 
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It  is  the  result  of  long  and  careful  study  of  the  period  of  which  it 
treats,  and  hence  is  the  product  of  genuine  sympathies  and  a 
freshly-fired  imagination.  The  field  is  Europe,  and  the  period  is 
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glow  of  the  later  Renaissance  is  giving  place  to  the  brighter  glories 
of  the  dawning  Reformation. 

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relieve  the  more  sombre  coloring.  The  memorable  meeting  of  the 
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to  the  severest  test ;  while  the  Waldensian  heroes  in  their  mountain 
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traits  of  human  nature  were  openly  manifested,  is  well  worth 
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A  story  of  marked  strength,  both  of  imagination  and  narration. 
—  Home  Journal,  New  York. 


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BY    MARY    ABBOTT, 

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The  uncommonly  favorable  reception  of  Mrs.  Abbott's  brilliant 
novelette,  "  Alexia,"  by  the  public  bespeaks  in  advance  a  lively 
mterest  in  her  new  novel,  "  The  Beverleys."  It  is  a  more  extended 
and  ambitious  work  than  the  former,  but  has  the  same  grace  of  style 
and  liveliness  of  treatment,  together  with  a  much  more  considerable 
plot  and  more  subtle  delineations  of  character  and  life.  The  action 
of  the  stor}-  takes  place  in  India,  and  reveals  on  the  part  of  the 
authoress  the  most  intimate  knowledge  of  the  official  life  of  the 
large  and  aristocratic  English  colony  in  Calcutta.  The  local  color- 
ing is  strong  and  unusual. 

A  more  joyous  story  cannot  be  imagined.  ...  A  harum-scarum 
good-nature;  a  frank  pursuit  of  cakes  and  ale;  a  heedless,  happy- 
go-lucky  spirit,  are  admirable  components  in  a  novel,  however  tr}'ing 
they  may  be  found  in  the  walks  of  daily  life.  Such  are  the  pleas- 
ures of  "The  Beverleys."  To  read  it  is  recreation,  indeed. — 
Public  Ledger,  Philadelphia. 

The  author  writes  throughout  with  good  taste,  and  with  a  quick 
eye  for  the  picturesque.  —  Herald,  Neiv  York. 

It  is  a  pretty  story,  charmingly  written,  with  cleverly  sketched 
pictures  of  various  types  of  character  .  .  .  The  book  abounds  in 
keen,  incisive  philosophy,  wrapped  up  in  characteristic  remarks.  — 
Times,  Chicago 

An  absorbing  story.  It  is  brilliantly  and  vivaciously  written.  — 
Literary  World,  Boston. 

The  author  has  until  now  been  known,  so  far  as  we  are  aware, 
only  by  her  former  story,  "  Alexia."  Unless  signs  fail  which  sel- 
dom do  fail,  these  two  with  which  her  name  is  now  associated  are 
simply  the  forerunners  of  works  in  a  like  vein  of  which  American 
'•terature  will  have  reason  to  be  proud.  —  Standard,  Chicago. 


Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

A.  C.  iMcCLURG  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Cor.  Wab.^^sh  Ave.  and  Madison  St.,  CwicAGa 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  THE  GODS. 

A  ROMANCE  OF  INDIAN  OREGON. 

By  F.  H.  Balch. 

i2mo,  280  pages.     Price,  $1.25. 


This  is  a  masterly  and  original  delineation  of  Indian  life.  It 
is  a  strong  story,  charged  with  the  elemental  forces  of  the  human 
heart.  The  author  portrays  with  unusual  power  the  intense,  stem 
piety  of  the  ministers  of  colonial  New  England,  and  the  strange 
mingling  of  dignity,  superstition,  ferocity,  and  stoicism  that  char- 
acterized the  early  Indian  warriors. 

There  is  no  need  of  romancing,  and  Mr.  Balch's  scenic  descrip- 
tions are  for  all  practical  purposes  real  descriptions.  The  legends 
he  relates  of  the  great  bridge  which  once  spanned  the  Columbia, 
for  which  there  is  some  substantial  history,  adds  to  the  mystical 
charms  of  the  story  His  Indian  characters  are  as  real  as  if  photo- 
graphed from  life.  No  writer  has  presented  a  finer  character  than 
the  great  chief  of  the  Willamettes,  Multnomah  ;  Snoqualmie  the 
Cayuse;  or  Tohomish  the  Seer.  The  night  visit  of  Multnomah  to 
the  tomb  of  his  dead  wife  upon  that  lonely  island  in  the  Willam- 
ette is  a  picture  that  will  forever  live  in  the  reader's  memory.  .  .  . 
To  those  who  have  traversed  the  ground,  and  know  something  of 
Indian  character  and  the  wild,  free  life  of  pioneer  days,  the  story 
vdll  be  charming  — Inter-Ocean,  Chicago. 

It  is  a  truthful  and  realistic  picture  of  the  powerful  Indian  tribes 
that  inhabited  the  Oregon  country  two  centuries  ago.  ...  It  is  a 
book  that  will  be  of  value  as  a  historical  authority  ;  and  as  a  story 
of  interest  and  charm,  there  are  few  novels  that  can  rival  it.  — 
Traveller,  Boston. 

There  is  much  and  deep  insight  in  this  book.  The  characters 
stand  in  clear  outline,  and  are  original.  The  movement  of  the 
story  is  quick  and  varied,  like  the  running  water  of  the  great  river. 
—  The  Pacific,  San  Francisco. 

Its  field  is  new  for  fiction  ;  it  is  obviously  the  work  of  one  who 
has  bestowed  a  great  deal  of  study  on  the  subjects  he  would  illus- 
trate. It  is  very  interesting  reading,  fluently  written.  —  Times, 
Chicago. 

Sold  by  all  booksellers,  or  mailed,  on  receipt  of  price,  by 

A.  C.  McCLURG  &  CO.,  Publishers, 

Cor.  Wabash  Ave.  and  Madison  St.,  Chicago. 


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